Where The Present Meets The Past
by Starwind Rohana
Summary: The Elves thought they were safe after leaving Middle-Earth. But trouble has arisen. Now many of them are trapped in an unknown land. The families of Elrond and Thranduil struggle to discover the reason for their being there, while trying to live. R&R!
1. A Different World

Where Present Meets The Past  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing except Elenlome /Nenya. Tolkein owns Arda, any references to the PPC belong to the fabulous Jay and Acacia.  
  
A/N: Like I've said before, I believe that Arda is NOT Earth. It's just so hard not to write when the Nuzgul comes- or, in this case, your seriously underworked imagination invents a nice little storyline.  
  
A Different World.  
  
It had changed a lot.  
  
Elrond Peredhil stared at the dry, barren land before him. This was not Valinor! By Elbereth...  
  
He felt a sudden, light touch on his arm. Celebrian was standing just behind him, her golden hair shining gently under the harsh sun. There was fear in her eyes; she was regarding this place as if it was the Void and Melkor were there beside her.  
  
"How..." she whispered, looking up at him in utter terror. "Why..."  
  
It was a question he had no answer to.  
  
"I do not know, mellon-nin," he breathed, pulling her close. "I do not know!"  
  
They were lost...trapped...  
  
""""""""""""  
  
"NO!!"  
  
He sat up violently, shaking the sweat from his head. Swiftly, the after- effects of the nightmare wore off, and his elven eyes could detect the glow of starlight outside the window of the chamber that he and Celebrian shared.  
  
Thinking of Celebrian...  
  
Yes, there she was, huddled beside him, her eyes wide open in an Elvish sleeping trance. She looked happy.  
  
Then she stirred and woke, sleepily glancing about her, until her eyes lit on his alarmed face.  
  
"Mellon-nin?" she inquired, dozily sitting up. "What is wrong, my love?"  
  
"Nothing, a dream only," he replied, trying not to cause her worry. "It is naught, my dear, go sleep."  
  
"A dream," she observed shrewdly, "would not cause you to wake in the middle of the night bearing the appearance of a Dwarf who has been forced to take flight. It is not a dream."  
  
He laughed softly at her detailed observations. "Nay, Celebrian, and yet it was also a dream, merely exhaustingly lifelike. I bid you rest."  
  
"While my husband sits and stares about as though he knows not right from left? Come, love, you know me better then that! It may be that your foresight speaks, and so it seems real for you."  
  
He froze at her words. No, it could not be! And yet it made a terrible, twisted kind of sense ...  
  
"I pray Iluvatar that is not the case," he murmured, drawing her into a tight embrace.  
  
Oh, Eru, let that not be true! """"""""""""" A/N: Hey, I had to give a bit of explanation somewhere, didn't I? Anyone who has read Time Beyond Measure will have some idea of what is going on here, so go read, shoo! Kirsty. 


	2. The Breaking of Valinor

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it all.  
  
A/N: Reviewer responses at the end. Well, on with the fic!  
  
The Breaking of Valinor.  
  
He strode down the white stairs, gazing about him as though he had never seen this house before in his life- and well he might. After what Celebrian had shown him last night...! Valar, how could he possibly have been so blind? Never before had he failed to notice when his foresight spoke to him- although maybe, after the cruelty of what had happened when it last cane into play...  
  
His daughter, Arwen Undomiel, had been lost to the mortal fate. It had been a great loss for all her family, most of whom now resided in Valinor, but she had wished to stay with Estel, and he would not have taken that choice from her- or Aragorn.  
  
What...  
  
All of a sudden, Valinor began to tremble.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
"ELROHIR!"  
  
The cry was torn from the throat of a young, dark-haired Noldor, as he watched his brother vanish under the pile of wood that used to be an outhouse. Paying no attention to the fact that said heap of wood had quite a few rather sharp spars sticking out at some extremely awkward angles, he raced forward, trying to climb the side and let his brother out.  
  
There was a short, hacking, coughing sound from somewhere below his knees, and he tore through the offending planks to get to it.  
  
His brother scrambled out, looking only a little worse for the wear for his sojourn under the (now collapsed) outhouse- until you saw the long, shallow cut that ran over his collarbone and down his arm to the elbow.  
  
Elrohir saw Elladan looking.  
  
"I'm fine, Dan. It's just a scratch. See?"  
  
He picked up a pebble and tossed it from hand to hand, exaggerating the motion of his injured arm.  
  
Elladan rolled his eyes. "Fine," he muttered, "if you insist..."  
  
And then, as if by mutual agreement, they turned and raced into the house.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elrond stared from the doorway of his home as Valinor quaked and shook about him. He had strapped his sword to his waist, and Vilya was on his hand- even if technically she was utterly useless in battle, she made him feel safer.  
  
Celebrian was in the hall. She had somehow obtained a javelin.  
  
Elrond seriously did not want to know how she had found a javelin, or even how she could use one in the first place.  
  
Following that trail of thought, she most likely couldn't.  
  
"Celebrian," he called, "go back up and fetch Elenlome- hurry! Her children..."  
  
He never got any further, because at that moment his twin sons crashed through the back door and hammered up the stairs.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Manwe strode swiftly through the halls of the Valar. Valinor was shaking, shivering- coming apart. They were trying to hold it together, but he was not sure if they would succeed.  
  
No, he corrected himself, he knew they would not succeed. Their only chance was to empty Valinor into the world outside.  
  
Yet he was loath to do this, seeing what a cold, cruel place the world had become.  
  
But there was a hope. If they chose a different time in history to the one that was pummelling the barriers of their land, the Eldar would have a better chance of finding out about their surroundings.  
  
Of course, any fool can find out about his surroundings. It's just a question of staying alive while doing so.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elenlome shot down the stairs. Ninquedil dashed after her, closely pursued by Tindome and Tholinsul.  
  
"Lord Elrond- er, milord, where are you going?"  
  
The Elven-Lord didn't bother to answer.  
  
"Tholinsul, where's your rapier? Ninquedil- already armed, I see. Tindome...go find a dagger, quickly now. Elrohir...Elladan...Elenlome-be careful! Spears are dangerous. Celebrian, there you are- is everyone ready? Good. Run, now, we have to get out of Valimar, out of the city."  
  
"But, Ada-"  
  
"NOW!"  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Arda shook.  
  
Later, all who had felt it- which, seeing as the tremor was worldwide, was everyone on the planet- attributed it to being a freak earthquake, a punishment from the gods, or an omen. Of course, nobody ever found out that it was worldwide, seeing as there was no reliable recording system back then.  
  
And so the passing of the Eldar and the Maiar into this world went completely unrecorded.  
  
For Valinor broke, depositing them in Italy. The shaking, the quivering, the falling buildings- the Elves were removed from that...  
  
And placed instead on a large, flat, dry, sandy plain, with a very hot sun beating down and exactly minus three clouds to give some relief.  
  
Welcome to Italy, twenty B.C.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: And we finally meet the twins, Elenlome, and Elrond's grandchildren! Don't worry- Elenlome IS Elrohir's wife, but I shall keep her from Suedom, I swear.  
  
Reviewer Responses:  
  
Well, LaLaMoi, I'm sorry- really. But, see, I don't know the Elvish for 'my love', so please tell me next time you review, and I shall be very grateful.  
  
Here, Zammy, it's the update you asked for!  
  
Glad you liked the description, Evenstar Elanor, and I hope some things here made you laugh too! 


	3. Captives of Slavery

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Elves (most of them), the Maiar, and the Rings of Power. The Romans are owned by history. I own Elenlome (Night Star), Ninquedil (White Devotion), Tindome (Starry Twilight), Tholinsul (Wind Helm), and Haruial (Flower of the South). Now that you've heard my general ramblings- onwards!  
  
Captives of Slavery.  
  
Hot. So hot.  
  
Sand, everywhere, all places that Elven sight could reach were covered in sand.  
  
It was dry, too dry, and the sun was large.  
  
There was a light touch on his arm. Celebrian was there, looking scared, so scared...Where have I seen this?   
  
His eyes widened. They were there, in the place he had foreseen...  
  
"How?" Celebrian breathed. "Why?"  
  
"I do not know, mellon-nin, I do not know!"  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Vilya shone.  
  
So did Nenya and Narya.  
  
The Valar, in their desperation, were threading some of their power into the Elven-Rings.  
  
Slowly, Elrond, Galadriel, and Mithrandir raised their hands to their faces and gazed at their charges,  
  
Vilya was akin to the sea, her centre a whirl of sapphire. Narya was pure fire, glowing fiercely. Nenya was wind-driven snow, her interior so lovely that it was hard to look at her- or to look away.  
  
The three Ringbearers were not alone.  
  
In fact, just about every Elf from Amen was standing there- including some who had been dead when they departed Middle-Earth. High King Gil-Galed was there, looking as if a warg had popped up and politely asked him the way to Ithilien, aka, completely bemused. Celebrimbor was gazing at the sky as though he had never seen it before.  
  
Being that the two had only been brought back to life thirty years ago, this was probably not surprising.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Lucius Markus Pecunius was leading an entire battalion of Roman troops through the desert. Of course, not all of them were soldiers. Lucius had the largest collection of slavers/warriors throughout the Empire. They ran a roaring trade.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, the centurion spotted a low cloud of dust. Sounding a horn, he turned his men southwards.  
  
What he didn't know was that they had been seen long before. Elven eyes had no trouble detecting the clouds of dust half an army raises, and they were moving more slowly, and lighter, so as to raise minimal amounts of sand.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
"There are men approaching."  
  
"The group we saw earlier?"  
  
"Yes. They have changed their course."  
  
"Thank you for explaining the obvious."  
  
"Elladan, Elrohir, hush. Elenlome...what are you doing?"  
  
The dark-haired Elf-maiden had stopped, and was looking over the plains at the approaching crowd.  
  
"Well, I'll be darned," she muttered.  
  
Elrohir cocked his head to one side.  
  
"Darned?"  
  
Everyone, even he, sometimes had trouble with Elenlome's vocabulary.  
  
"Er...basically, um, fed to a troll, sent to the darkest corner of Mandos' Halls- metaphorically, of course."  
  
Elrond gave her a steady look.  
  
"Elenlome, if you must use expletives, use ones that everybody can understand. Why will you be 'darned'?"  
  
The Elf in question squinted toward the aforementioned army.  
  
"Romans."  
  
Gil-Galed looked bemused.  
  
So did everyone not in Middle-Earth around the time of the War of the Ring.  
  
Sigh. It looked like another explanation.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
"I wasn't born on Arda. Well, I was, but it wasn't called Arda when I was a child, it was called Earth. It was way different to Middle-Earth. The language was so different to Westron it would have been unrecognisable to any of you.  
  
"I had three sisters. Two of them were born on the same day as I- we were triplets, but not identical, and I failed to see anything unusual in either of those facts. I still do, to some degree.  
  
"There was a series of books in our world. They chronicled the beginning of the world to the start of the Fourth Age. Everyone thought...that they were stories. Not true. Merely a fantasy of some old professor.  
  
"We were human- the Eldar did not exist, or if they did, nobody could find them. There were no hobbits, Dwarves, or Ents, to the best of everyone's knowledge. But some did believe the tales...and there were others who did not believe them, and wrote stories based on them, which was perfectly legal, provided you said you did not own those tales. Most of said stories were vile self-insertions called Mary Sues, who disrupted family bloodlines, tore up history, and got to seduce the object of their desire by making them act totally unlike themselves.  
  
"Which is where the Protectors of the Plot Continuum come in. They went through Middle-Earth, killing Mary Sues, usually around the time of the War of the Ring. Me and my sisters became assassins. We used our old nicknames as our official aliases. My older sister became Simaril. My older triplet was Vilya. My younger triplet was Narya. I became Nenya.  
  
"Now, in order not to disrupt the world any more, we had to disguise ourselves. But these weren't just disguises, oh no. We literally became what we had to be that mission. I mean, you could choose to be an Uruk-Hai, and you got the power, the size, the viciousness- everything. But you also retained your true mind. You didn't decide to go off and kill Elves, you went off and killed Sues that were bothering said Elves.  
  
"I...made a mistake. I meant to disguise myself as an Elf. I didn't mean to end up four millennia before I was supposed to. I was also in a body the grand total of ten years old. Which means I was staggering around the land near Rivendell, only half able to walk, making up a name that actually sounded Elvish- Elenlome, night star.  
  
"I grew up twice- once in England, as Jane, or Nenya- which I preferred to Jane- and once in Imladris, as Elenlome. In a way, I had two childhoods, and I'm glad. I think the Valar knew about the PPC, and brought me to Rivendell, so that the place wouldn't break at the seams- it almost did, several times, and those were with emergency groups of assassins working overtime, plus any of Imladris' regular inhabitants who weren't out of their minds. And I could speak Westron, and Elvish, because I'd been there for so long.  
  
"Now, at the end of the Third Age, the Fellowship of the Ring, along with the rest of the general area, began recycling through time. I assume that the rest of Arda simply slowed down so as not to alarm the rest of you. Either way, that's when all the major crisis's came into play. There were nine almost-break-ups in that period alone. There was only one other in four thousand years.  
  
"But back to the Romans. After the Fourth Age- that's when people stopped recording the Ages. I think it was about three thousand years after the end of the Third Age, Gondor and Rohan and Harad and just about any other place you care to name had vanished, along with all the great races other than humans. I'm not saying that there aren't any other races, but they have hidden away, and don't care to come out. When they vanished, humans- forgot. Civilisations fell, origins were lost, and everything had to be learnt all over again.  
  
"During my first childhood, I learned about the Romans. They lived over a period of about four hundred years. They conquered and ruled half the world, and a thousand years later, you could still see the ruins they had left. They could make the most beautiful pictures, using coloured tiles. And their armies were almost unstoppable.  
  
"There. Now that you've all had a thorough grounding in where I come from and why I use words you don't know, along with a brief history of the Romans, how about we pay more attention to the group of them two miles away?"  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elrond had only been listening to Elenlome/Nenya with one ear.  
  
Since that, instead of being a sue, the girl was sarcastic, frequently impatient, vaguely pretty instead of being a raving beauty, bit her nails, liked raw fish, had a rather short temper, and was flawed in a dozen other ways- although she did have quite a few good points- it was easier to not pay attention.  
  
The fact that he'd had the same explanation in Imladris helped.  
  
The Roman contingent was approaching fast. The Eldar, seeing even several leagues away that they were well-armed and were carrying chains, began to take up a defensive position, with those who were armed moving in front of those who were not.  
  
Elrond suddenly noticed that Tholinsul, Tindome, and Ninquedil had all moved to the front line. He wouldn't have had any reservations about this, except Ninquedil was the only one born on Middle-Earth, and, as eager as his grandchildren were when it came to warfare, none of them had seen battle.  
  
Elrohir and Elladan quickly sidestepped between the three Elflings and the potential foe. With a quick glance at his wife to check that she was beside him, Elrohir nudged Tindome, the youngest, behind him to Haruial and Legolas, two of the few who had thought to bring bows.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
The two companies came to a halt facing each other warily. The Romans could see tat their prospective prey was well armed, and the Eldar could see that their opposition was travelling in the guise of an army, which, by pure association, indicated that they were good fighters.  
  
The hands of the Elven archers tightened on their bowstrings.  
  
Thranduil and Celeborn sent them sharp glances. The King of Mirkwood and the Lord of Lothlorien relaxed as they saw that none was willing to raise the bow and so maybe invite conflict.  
  
Galadriel was considering their opponents in a different manner. Touching their minds, she tried to understand what they were thinking, and therefore probably saying. If, somehow she could use gestures that corresponded to their thoughts, she could allow others to understand what they were saying.  
  
Strong...they...fighters...many...   
  
The Elven-Queen frowned. They were...thinking about the Eldar. That was simple- and the obvious thing to be doing.  
  
Young...work...healthy...slaves...   
  
"RUN!!"  
  
The other Elven rulers looked at her sharply, but she had already turned to move their people away.  
  
Elrond asked her, "My lady, why...?"  
  
"Slavery!"  
  
Gil-Galed's mouth tightened in a grim line. Thranduil had already turned, shouting to the archers originally from Mirkwood to fire. Celeborn had barely opened his mouth when his own archers did the same.  
  
A tight, controlled volley of arrows showered into the advancing Roman ranks. Beyond the line of Eldar warriors (or, more specifically, those Elves who had weapons), the inhabitants of Valinor were breaking away, although those who had family in the front line were waiting...  
  
And then all of Angband broke loose.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Haruial thought she'd gone insane. There was no logic to this battle, only a mad way of attacking anyone not on her side, as Thranduil turned and called to her brother and herself, telling them that they had to come- some of them must escape, and he would not leave them leaderless, nor would he let his wife of children be taken. She knew that he truly hated, even more than slavery for any Elf, the idea that his family should suffer.  
  
And then some of the fighters had joined her, and she and Legolas were running, and weeping, because they knew that if they were not taken then they could more effectively help those who were, but to leave their comrades screamed against the very fabric of their souls.  
  
Ninquedil was racing along behind her, half-dragging her sister and brother, while half the Elves were with them, and the other half being hunted down or engaged in frantic battles for their freedom.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elrond had been right. Celebrian did not have the faintest idea about how to use a javelin. As far as she was concerned, it was just something she could stab people with.  
  
Any archer who has tried to stab an orc with an arrow can tell you exactly how well ranged weapons work when utilised as spears- very badly. A javelin is meant to be thrown, not stabbed about wildly. Her fight was hopeless from the start.  
  
Within seconds, she found herself lying on the sand, Elladan standing over the body of the soldier who had been attempting to bind her. She scrabbled back to her feet, seized her weapon, and resumed trying to stab slavers through the chinks in their armour.  
  
Looking briefly up at the sky with a prayer to the Valar, she was slammed down to the ground, almost unable to breath, her husband crying her name before he was swept up in battle once again.  
  
And then the memories of when she had been taken by orcs thrust up through the mental barriers she had blocked them with for so long, and she was lost to a screaming void of filthy, jagged claws and hot, stinking breath.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Aule was furious.  
  
Actually, he was more like completely, raving, Melkor-on-a-bad-day raging. Why was Aule in this mood? Well, first something incredibly powerful had begun battering the land. Tirion was in ruins, Valimar looked like Glaurung had attacked it with the aid of a Balrog, and Alqualonde had slipped out of Valinor altogether for a few minutes, coming back with a loud crash and lava all through the streets. Then Manwe, Ulmo, Varda, and Namo had told him that even Mandos' Halls and the edges of the seas had been shaken severely. Nienna had arrived halfway through the conversation/ "WHAT?!" –yelling-from-Varda-and-Aule, to tell them all that Vaire had seen/woven this part of the world breaking up.  
  
And then Valinor, despite all their efforts, had begun to crack. Manwe had suggested that they should empty her. Aule, quite reasonably, had pointed out that the world beyond would be the death of the Eldar in under a week. So Manwe had proposed that they send the Elves to a different time, where they would be better able to fend for themselves. Varda had jumped in with the idea of sending the Maiar with them, which had been generally accepted. So, to Aule's grudging admission that maybe it would be safer for the Firstborn, they had emptied the land.  
  
And then Valinor broke up into ten large chunks.  
  
Which was why a raging Aule was storming about, trying, with the help of the other Valar, to put Valinor back together.  
  
It didn't help that he'd just had to twist the rules and one-time powers of the Elven-Rings so that they were powerful once more and could also help the Elves.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elrond turned, twisted, tried to see his wife, to fight free, to get to Celebrian... but the chains held fast and he could not get free. He remembered Vilya and began to whisper in the High Tongue.  
  
Unfortunately, Vilya's powers had only just been woken, and she was visible to all. Rough hands snatched the ring from his finger, and he glanced about, hoping that Galadriel...no, she too had been taken, no doubt when trying to defend her daughter. Even Gil-Galed was there, having apparently preferred fight to fight to flight and so being caught.  
  
There was no doubt that these 'Romans' were efficient in their work. Any bloodshed on the side of the Eldar had been minimal and all the dead were human. The only problem being that all of the slaves were not.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Celeborn hated it all.  
  
He hated the sight of his daughter going through an ordeal she had barely survived before. He hated the way his grandsons stood there, hopeless, while he was unable to aid them. He hated the broken, torn look on Elrond's face, and he hated the way they forced the Elves, even the last High King, to get to their feet and be chained together.  
  
And he loathed the heavy, stifling metal band that they fastened around his neck to secure him to the rest of the Eldar.  
  
Most of all, he hated what they had done to his wife. Seeing what had happened to Celebrian, and being at the time uncaptured, she had endeavoured to protect her child. Artanis in a fighting mood was a truly formidable opponent, and she had had many years to hone her skills. After all their kin had been caught, or at least all that had not been able to flee early on, they had decided to use Galadriel as an example.  
  
At least, that was what Celeborn had gathered.  
  
They had not damaged her badly, since it was obvious even to the Eldar, who did not keep slaves, that she would be highly valuable. But they had still hurt her, thrusting her to the floor and kicking at her, beating her with the handles of their whips.  
  
All through this, she had not cried out once.  
  
The image of the Lady lying battered on the ground had shocked them into silence.  
  
He could not even comfort her.  
  
And that was what hurt Celeborn most of all.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: So, now we know what happened to Valinor- the place broke up! We also have Injured!Galadriel/Artanis, Hallucinating!Celebrian, Alive!Gil-Galed, and a bunch of Elves lost in Italy. Things are not looking up for our heroes. And Valinor's in bits, so no help there. Plus an introduction to Elenlome, and some minor Elf Lord angst.  
  
Beware the Author. Muahaha.  
  
Reviewer Responses.  
  
Hellga: Thanks for that information. I shall change the rapier to a dirk- I think they had those in Arda. Sorry about the typo, and Tholinsul's name, I got it off a name generator- took me ages to get one that mildly makes sense. As for Ninquedil- I'll try to remember to modify it. Elrond WAS living in Tirion, he was just visiting Valimar, as after a few thousand years you have to make SOME friends in other cities. I hope that sorts it out.  
  
Kaye Thorn: I'm glad my OCs don't seem Sue-ish, as I abhor the things. Here is another chapter, and about the writing style- I'm honoured.  
  
Evenstar Elenor: I am SO surprised that you think I'll be an exception to the rule, and shall do my best to live up to the post you've set me. I hope you like the way I did the twins.  
  
Zammy: You are a very faithful reviewer. Thank you. 


	4. Horror and Death

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns- most of it. I own the plot. The Emperor owns the Romans. Now to figure out who was Emperor in 20 BC... wanders off muttering.   
  
A/N: Elrond means Star Dome. Elrohir means Star Lord. Elladan means Star Mortal. Celeborn means Silver Trees. I hope I have not bored you.  
  
Horror and Death.  
  
Elladan staggered slightly in the baking heat of the afternoon sun. It was hard to believe the day could get this hot, but here he was, sweltering away as proof of it. How their captors managed it in armour, he did not know. Maybe they were used to it.  
  
His heart burned with shame. He had failed his mother. He had failed his father. He had not defended his brother and he had let his grandmother be harmed while her husband watched. He was disgusted with himself.  
  
The rope burned as it twisted over his skin. His wrists were fixed behind him, he could not steady himself so well when he stumbled, though still with more ease than a human. His balance felt off.  
  
Where was his mother? He could not see her. Perhaps she was too far ahead or behind him, yes, that made the most sense. She was simply out of his sight.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Erestor was pacing slowly along, or as slowly as possible under the circumstances. Celebrian was leaning heavily on his shoulder; she still seemed rather shaken. Her silver hair was sticky with sweat, and he was taking half of her weight. She had been chained in front of him, but they had let her move back so that she would not fall when unsupported.  
  
He wished she could stand with one of her kin, but they were too far apart for that to be possible. And as for her grandchildren...  
  
Almost against his will, he turned his eyes to where the Royal family of Mirkwood had led half their numbers into...safety, he supposed. It had to be better than here. The heat of the chained and manacled band on his neck, the harsh sand that ground into his feet with every step, Celebrian's half- dead weight on his shoulder...was it too much to ask that it should end?  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Tindome's back ached. Her head swam. Her feet were as heavy as lead. She felt dizzy and nauseated. She kept tripping over her feet.  
  
She was following her brother in absolute trust. Her friends and family had never let her down, and they would not now. Her great-grandmother had told her about how Thranduil had held Mirkwood against Sauron, without even the help of the Three, who had apparently been very powerful around that time.  
  
Thranduil was leading this group. Thranduil had held out against an evil Maia trying to take over the world. Therefore, they would be safe.  
  
But the sun still hammered down, and they were still walking, wondering about how they could find water, and what they would eat, and where they would sleep, and if the Romans would find them.  
  
The Romans.  
  
Her mother had known about the Romans. Her mother had known a lot of things. She had once told Tindome that she had been forced to learn those things. Tindome hadn't understood why. Elenlome had said that, before she'd been an Elf, she'd lived in a different time.  
  
That had culminated in she and her siblings getting a thorough education of where their mother had come from, along with why she knew some completely pointless things.  
  
But her mother wasn't here now. Nana and Ada were gone. Those people in armour had taken them somewhere, or so Ninquedil said. But maybe her sister was wrong. Maybe Elenlome and Elrohir had escaped. Maybe they were just a few hours walk away, tracking the group in front of them.  
  
Tindome would hold on to that hope until she saw her parents in chains.  
  
But now Legolas was turning the Elves next to them down a gully, and she followed, because in all her young life, her trust had never been betrayed.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Thranduil continued to lead them on.  
  
He had to. His entire experience and sense of self told him to help his people, to keep them safe, to ensure that no harm came to them. He felt guilty at leaving so many behind, but he knew that, if any of their numbers were to evade slavery, they had to be led. They had to have some semblance of order, and someone to make hard decisions. They needed to have one who would do all he could for them.  
  
He had taken up this responsibility before, in Mirkwood, when Oropher had been killed at the Last Alliance. He had led the Elves there for thousands of years. His warriors had been incredible fighters, honing their skills continuously in the struggle for their home.  
  
Now he was doing it again. He was leading fighters and children, cooks and craftsmen, healers and trainers. Their survival was on his head.  
  
He could hear water. They were no longer travelling over sand, but coarse, sparse grass. He had seen cattle- a long way off, but an indication of civilisation.  
  
That meant that this land could be lived in.  
  
He turned towards the sound. They had to drink. He had no wish to lose an Elf to dehydration. Even if that was highly unlikely-  
  
And then he saw the child, staggering after her siblings, and knew that, being only a few hundred years old, she could not take it as well as the rest of them.  
  
He would not let her die. He would not let anyone die.  
  
"King Thranduil."  
  
Thranduil did not bother to look at the speaker.  
  
"I am not a king, Olorin," he said tiredly. "I gave up that position when we left the shores of Middle-Earth. I am just an Elf now, one who happens to be leading half of the Eldar who left Valinor."  
  
"Maybe so, but you have assumed control. You are a king now, at least for a while. You admitted it yourself, you are leading them. You are, therefore, their lord. You are their leader, and your archers and fighters will still heed you, because, to them, you will always be a king."  
  
Thranduil stopped and faced Gandalf. "Mithrandir, look at them! They are tired and thirsty. Their stomachs are empty. They are mostly Teleri, Noldor, and Vanya, all of whom have never acknowledged me as lord, or those Sindar and Silvian who did not serve under my command. The ones I see from my own realm...Olorin, how am I supposed to lead them when I have not done so for millennia?"  
  
He turned away from the Isatar to follow the others down the hill. The beck glinted tantalizingly below. Already he could see the children of Elrohir nudging through the crowd at the banks, the older two gently helping their sister to kneel and drink.  
  
He spoke, not taking his eyes from his son or daughter, where they stood by Lothmiren, his wife. "Gandalf- I cannot do this."  
  
He strode toward his family, needing to speak with them, to have them understand- to understand himself.  
  
They looked up as he drew near, then hurried to meet him. Their faces were serious. He was not sure what to say. That he had refused leadership? That they did not need him?  
  
"Ada."  
  
Legolas...he was concerned, worried for his people. So was Thranduil, but he had not had to do that for so long, he was no longer sure he was able.  
  
Ruling a kingdom- it was not easy. It was a hard, demanding task. Leading a group of bewildered Elves might be easier, but after a while they would sort themselves out- and Thranduil did not intend to be there when they did.  
  
No, he intended to be far away from here, tracking the captive Eldar. Maybe he would have others with him, or perhaps he would be alone. But he did not want to be ruling them when he left. If he were their king at the time of his departure, they would be lost without him.  
  
The captive Eldar...  
  
"Ada?"  
  
"Love?"  
  
His wife was watching him closely. Too closely.  
  
"Ada, you must lead them," Legolas said earnestly, gazing at him, turning to glance at the drinkers, then back to him. "Father, they..."  
  
"They do not need me, Legolas. They need Lord Cirdan, or Lord Elrond, or the Lady Galadriel. They need Lords Elladan and Elrohir, or Lord Celeborn, or High King Gil-Galed. They need Glorfindel, or even Hadlir. The Marchwarden of Lothlorien would be a better choice than I! All those people have been taken, Legolas, and they must be found. You must keep them alive, or Olorin must, or Radagast, or Melien. I have to find those that can care for them more effectively."  
  
His son stared at him in open astonishment.  
  
"Ada, no."  
  
"Legolas..."  
  
"Father, you are the only one here who can manage this. Yes, I was once a lord of Ithilien. Yes, I fought in the War of the Ring, and was one of the Nine Walkers. Yes, I was a member of your council for several hundred years. But I did not pull Mirkwood back from the edge of despair. I have not led warriors into desperate and hopeless battles, and come out victorious. I did not hold a kingdom against Sauron for millennia, while one of his strongholds festered in the south of our land. I did not march to war in the Last Great Alliance."  
  
Thranduil tried to interrupt then, but Legolas held up a hand. "I am not finished. It was not I who defeated Ringwraiths and orcs continuously for centuries without an Elven Ring. It was not I who laboured to protect our people for so long- and succeeded. You did all of that, Father, and you are the only one here who can protect those that have escaped."  
  
He was staring intensely at his father. "Ada, do you think I do not want to find them? They are my friends, and many I respect. But those we have must come first. When you have organised them properly and sufficiently, then you can track down our comrades, and I will come too. But before that..."  
  
Thranduil looked steadily at his son.  
  
And then he turned and walked away.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Lothmiren found him at the base of a small hill, half a mile up the creek. The sun was setting, and his golden hair flowed down his back like molten lava. He was sitting on a hummock of earth, staring absently out at the water, and did not hear her approach.  
  
Still, he did not seem too surprised when she settled down beside him and slipped an arm around his waist.  
  
Neither spoke for a short time, and then he glanced at her, before returning his attention to the landscape.  
  
"I will come back," he said softly, leaning against her. "And then, when we are secure, I will search for our companions."  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elrond was searching for his wife.  
  
Although the former Lord of Imladris knew perfectly well that he would not be able to go to her, it set his heart at ease to know that she was well.  
  
Slightly more at ease, anyway.  
  
After a week or so, they had been able to make out a city in the distance. The Romans, two days later, had apparently also been able to see it, and had quickened the pace. Evidently, they were eager to get to it.  
  
Nobody was surprised.  
  
The city now before them was colossal. It towered over them, daunting, even a mile away. Traders crowded the roads, which were absolutely straight, and ran through well-tilled land- the desert had been left behind some time ago.  
  
The Elf in front of him turned her head slightly.  
  
"It's Rome."  
  
Elrond was confused. "How do you know?"  
  
"Lady Elenlome apparently said, 'The city of Rome. Pass it on.'."  
  
The Peredhil nodded, and muttered the message to the Elf behind him.  
  
Rome seemed huge a mile away, but that was nothing compared to viewing it from almost directly under it's walls.  
  
The place was immense, a giant structure that seemed to be one great thing, but was in fact many smaller ones. It was known to all that it must be much broader than it was tall, and deeper, but that seemed almost impossible as he stood beneath it. Had he not known something of building, Elrond would have sworn it was about to come crashing down on him.  
  
It was a place that demanded respect, and won it.  
  
As he passed between it's doors, he realised that Rome was, indeed, many different building, and what they had been viewing were only the walls. Inside, the many streets were almost all crammed with people. There was a tremendous stench.  
  
They were led down one of the less populated streets, where the one line was broken down into six smaller ones, although each was still rather large. There seemed to be a debate going on over the Eldar, but Elrond shut it out.  
  
Or rather, he shut out the entire world until someone tried to hand a wooden tag about his neck.  
  
His head came up and he kicked at the trader, not even noticing similar struggles going on all around him. He jerked his neck until they finally hung the sign on him, and then proceeded to spend all of the hour they were left there in attempting to get it off.  
  
He would have asked for help, but their hands were bound in such a way as to make detaching another's tag impossible.  
  
They were eventually shoved unceremoniously out of that street, and led to a- well, Elrond had to assume it was a market. It certainly smelled right.  
  
Upon entering, the head of their line- the other five had been left behind- was approached by a man with a hard, brutal face and a heavy build. He, and several like him, were apparently interested in 'purchasing' the Eldar. They spoke for a time, and then strode down the line, looking at the Elves. Elrond suddenly realised that almost all the Elves in this line were fighters- as though the slavers had wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible.  
  
One of the prospective buyers had noticed the twins, and apparently found it extremely amusing that they were identical. The rest roared with laughter, and then set off down the line, selecting some of the better fighters. They mainly seemed to be sceptical of the Eldar's fighting abilities- a situation that was quickly resolved after Celeborn tripped one of them up from three feet away for leering at his wife, and Gil-Galed attempted to burn off his bonds in a nearby furnace and would have succeeded if one of their captors had not smelled burning flesh- the High King hand not uttered a sound, despite the excruciating pain.  
  
In the end, the new group walked off with twenty Elves, now all manacled together at ankle and wrist. Quite a few 'hired muscle' men were accompanying them, as their new 'owners' had apparently learnt their lesson after Elrond had tried to throttle one of them with his chains, and Celeborn had proven to be a complete nuisance if you were trying to drag him away from Galadriel. Of course, if you wanted to STAY with the rest of the captives, he was a true blessing.  
  
Elrond was now walking beside his sons, and behind Gil-Galed. He might have been tired, but he had to be strong for them. That was all he could think of now, the fact that his sons needed him.  
  
Celeborn's anguished cry tore him out of his churning thoughts.  
  
"Artanis!"  
  
The Sinda was staring at a platform at the other end of the market, where his wife was now standing, while people gathered around, and someone began to shout, none of them knew what.  
  
And then they were being dragged away, tears blinding the eyes of all who had seen it.  
  
Valar, Elrond thought bitterly. They are as bad as orcs!   
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elladan was shaking.  
  
He did not want to. He did not want to admit it, but he was scared.  
  
So scared.  
  
This was not like running down orcs. That was a different fear. You knew that you could easily lose your life, but at least you could fight for it. With this fear- it was not the free, screaming, easy, and fluid fear of battle. It was a whimpering, trodden, black, stifling kind of fear. It ate away at him until he could no longer think.  
  
It was worse than being in a chain-trap. When the sharpened links sliced at your hands, at least you knew you could escape. But he was trapped now, and so securely he couldn't breathe without almost sobbing in terror.  
  
His vision had barely begun to clear when they were suddenly being herded down into the tunnels.  
  
One peculiar thing about Elves is that they have a tendency to be rather claustrophobic.  
  
So maybe it was not surprising when more than half flat-out refused to move.  
  
The whip came down on his back in a terrible portrayal of agony. He flinched away from it, gasping in pain, but refused to enter the black, gaping hole whose roof would cut off even the sight of the sky.  
  
He was not sure how many strokes they laid upon his skin, only that he was stumbling forwards, choking and crying and leaning against his father for the support that he so desperately needed.  
  
The Elves had had to dim their glow until it vanished- they could not have these men knowing that they were not human. Elladan, in his weakened state, had no trouble with this.  
  
After what seemed like miles, they were forced into a cell, of sorts, with a barred front that looked out on to a sandy arena. People were filling the stands, and Elladan felt a wave of apprehension.  
  
The guards that stood about the rim of this place bore the weapons of the Eldar. He felt his father's body tense in fury.  
  
And then...  
  
The two warriors faced one another. One wore much armour and carried a short sword. The other was clad in a tunic and armed with a net and trident.  
  
Blood began to flow.  
  
It could almost have been a laughing-stock, but they did not laugh. They felt horror instead, and disgust, and hatred for the people who had organised all this. They loathed those men who enjoyed this suffering, hated those who could stand in the seating and cheer.  
  
The white sand became red and sticky with life-liquid.  
  
It was only after an age of this atrocity that the man with the sword forced his opponent to the ground, and then looked to the crowd. Almost simultaneously, hands raised, the thumbs either up or down.  
  
The thumb of the clearly most important man was up.  
  
In one swift motion, the first fighter cut off his victim's head.  
  
Elladan gave a soft cry, that intensified as the killing went on. If it had been open warfare, or the settling of a grudge, he could have understood, but it was not. It was human on human for the amusement of the rest. It was despicable.  
  
Elladan had seen horrors before. He had fought in many battles, and seen the carnage at Helm's Deep. He had borne his mother's broken body from the cave where the orcs had held her, and had been tortured by the foul beasts himself, more than once. He had heard the screams of his brother and father. But all that was far in the past now, and this bloodshed was too much for one who had lived a thousand years and many more that had been full of peace.  
  
Too young. The older Elves had seen worse than he, and they could barely stand it.  
  
The twins could not. They might have fought these people briefly, but that had not been this, that had been for freedom, and none had died, and they had had too.  
  
Were it orcs, it would have been a different tale- but men had never been this violent before.  
  
The two boys pressed their faces into their fathers' cloak and whimpered gently, tears streaming from their eyes.  
  
And not just for the massacre in front of them.  
  
Because this was what they had to become.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: Soooooo- our Elves are becoming gladiators, Thranduil is a king again, Elenlome- who, incidentally, is the only one who knows squat about the Romans- has vanished, the twins are in hysterics, we've met Thranduil's wife, while half of our Eldar are sold in Rome, everyone is upset, and what do I intend to do about it? Nothing. It's half term next week, so I will write more, but first I have to go to a barn for three days.  
  
Said barn does not have Internet connections.  
  
Blast. 


	5. Twilight of Stars

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Elrohir, Earendil, the Simaril, and Earendil's boat. I own the plot, which actually exists.  
  
A/N: Earendil sails his ship of elven-glass and mithril through the skies of Arda, the Simaril as the Morning Star bound to his brow. Just so you know who he is, he's also Elrond's father, and a half-elf who chose immortality.  
  
Twilight of Stars  
  
Elrohir was walking on a starlit plain. In reality, it was more like he had just left the plain, and now brushed through trees to go- somewhere, he didn't know where, but he knew it was important.  
  
The deep black dome overhead offered countless promises, and Elrohir's own glow shone out in response to the warmth of the stars.  
  
Wandering gently up the 'path' he found himself upon, he wound about a little patch of silvery-leafed athelas. The plants were growing taller and thicker than any he had seen before.  
  
The small clearing could not really be called that. It was like, almost, the end of land and sea, yet it was not. It was- somewhere else.  
  
The boat stood in front of him. Pale and almost ghostly, and yet all too real. She was a delicate craft, this Sky-Sailer, and lovely too, but he saw her for only a moment.  
  
Instead, he saw her master.  
  
He was a dark-headed Noldo, fine-featured and somewhat familiar. His face was noble, yet friendly, and he smiled at the younger Elf warmly. There was a great jewel bound to his brow.  
  
Elrohir almost stopped breathing.  
  
The jewel was all joy, all laughter, and it caught his mind and sight so that he could think of naught other than it. It drove away any pain that he still felt, any sorrow, and, as he looked, he saw within it's depths two great trees, and their blossom was life and their fruits were the stars. When he saw it, nothing else mattered.  
  
He somehow ripped his gaze from it, and met the eyes of the other Elf. The other held out a hand.  
  
"Ride in my ship, Elrondion," he said, in a voice that told Elrohir that he had to, that murmured of wonders that had to be seen before he could even think of believing them, but, once viewed, could not be forgotten.  
  
Elrohir stepped softly forward, accepting the proffered hand and allowing himself to be guided to the ship.  
  
"Where are we going?" he asked his companion.  
  
"Higher than the sun, faster than the moon," came the reply. "Beyond the stars, below the sea. We race the fire, Elrondion, we sail the skies."  
  
Elrohir climbed carefully aboard the strange craft. It seemed to him that she tried to lift of her own accord, but he could not be sure.  
  
"Up now, my star-rider, let us fly again!"  
  
They left the world behind.  
  
Arda was a different place. She moved, spinning slowly, and the ship took the current of air that was left, he was never sure how. All he knew was that suddenly they were soaring, the wind pressing at his face, the Noldo beside him laughing in sheer exultation as he worked her course with incredible skill, and then Elrohir was laughing too.  
  
The stars were different, but he did not see them. He saw only the world, and waited- but saw no sun. No brighter light than the stars was there, and there was no moon.  
  
"Where are they, moon and sun?" he inquired.  
  
"They are not born yet. We sail before the falling of the Two Trees. Melkor is not yet come. Look!"  
  
Below, he saw figures, first lying still, then sitting up and looking round. He could have shouted in joy, but the atmosphere did not seem to allow it. They were savouring this moment, engraving it into their memories.  
  
A black spot spread across Arda. It moved near to the newborn figures. He wanted to shout, to warn them- but he could not, and he watched with aching heart as the shadow took the first of his kindred, twisting them horribly, until it created orcs.  
  
And then Orome had come, and was speaking to the remainder.  
  
When he saw the Two Trees, it was better than seeing the Simaril.  
  
He could not tear himself away, until Morgoth destroyed them, and at that moment he wept at what had been lost, wept until the sun rose for the first time, and Men awoke.  
  
He saw all that had been. He did not remember much, and understood little, but he had been granted an honour beyond words, and that stayed with him.  
  
But the history of the world was insignificant beside the splendour of the stars.  
  
They were magnificent, wondrous, the very meaning of beauty. They were all he could say, and much he could not. They were true perfectation.  
  
The ship danced betwixt constellations. She swooped through nebulae. She leapt over red stars and swung round blue ones. She dived under the green and drew circles round the white.  
  
She showed him a place he had not known existed, no, many such places. She gave him memories he would treasure forever, even there after many thousands of years.  
  
The only thing to do so other then his closest friends and family.  
  
At last, the journey began to draw to a close. They were idling now, taking the time to enjoy all that they saw.  
  
The world came into view.  
  
He had seen to the middle of the Fourth Age before they left. Now they were a long time from there.  
  
Elves were sleeping, many of them. So many...  
  
He could see his children.  
  
"You may speak to them," his guide whispered.  
  
So he leaned over the side as they hovered above the grass.  
  
"Take care of our Twilight, Wind Helm," he breathed. "Keep them both safe, Devotion."  
  
He caught the other looking at him.  
  
"Ninquedil, Tholinsul, and Tindome," he heard his companion murmur. "White Devotion, Wind Helm, and Twilight full of Stars. Fitting names, much like your own."  
  
The boat took off again. Light as a zephyr, she floated up, gliding into the dome of the sky like an owl on the wing.  
  
This time, when they re-entered the atmosphere, the sun had gone again.  
  
He disembarked the craft, then turned and bowed.  
  
"I thank you for the ride, Mariner."  
  
"A star shines on the hour of our meeting. Fare you well, Elrondion."  
  
And then Elrohir woke up.  
  
A/N: Yes, I'm evil. Sue me. This chapter does have plot relevance, if only in that it encourages Elrohir and gives him an extra reason for something he does later on, as well as telling him where to go, and a lot of excess hope.  
  
As for what he'll be doing- let's just say that it's a bad idea to pair two Elves in the gladiator ring. They are literally a couple of deadly monkeys. 


	6. Hiding The Mind

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns pretty much everything.  
  
A/N: I have /finally/ figured out what to do when I want to show italics- I put them inside slash marks.  
  
Hiding The Mind.  
  
Why?  
  
He didn't know. Why did they have to change the entire sense of self and peace that the tranquillity of Valinor had wrought in their minds? Because...he wasn't sure. All he /could/ be certain about was the fact that they had to lower themselves to the level of these people.  
  
Without knowing why.  
  
Gil-Galed hated having to drop the standards of his views on certain subjects. He also hated having to do something without knowing why, although he had had to on occasion.  
  
/Now/ did /not/ seem to be one of those times.  
  
But it was quite obvious that he was not going to get an explanation.  
  
That did not go well with the last High King of the Noldor.  
  
Nobody had really been able to handle the events of the day before. The twins had come out shaking, Elrond had been white-faced, Celeborn had meandered around rather unsteadily, Glorfindel had been heard muttering some /extremely/ interesting words in Quenya, Haldir and his brothers attempted to kill the guards, everyone's nerves had been rather on edge, and it was best not to say anything about Gil-Galed's state of mind, except that Elrond had been forced to knock him out before he did severe damage to either himself or the people around him.  
  
All in all, it had not been a happy group of Eldar that had arrived at the main barracks of the tunnels, to be shoved into separate cells.  
  
Not a happy group at all.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
"/Duck! Swing! Parry! Lunge! /"  
  
This continual stream of orders was completely unnecessary, as none of the Elves had forgotten much about bladework. In fact, they were probably better dualists than anyone else on the field, but, as they were all rather unwilling to show the true scope of their abilities, they were currently getting an irritating blast of instruction.  
  
A /very/ irritating blast of instruction.  
  
Celeborn was wondering if it would be easier to simply cut off the instructor's head and have done with it. It would certainly be easier for him to concentrate if that annoying babble in the background were to be removed.  
  
No, he decided, it would raise too many complications- one of which would most likely involve his execution, and Celeborn was not remotely eager to see /that/ happen. Best to just bear it calmly, and then maybe the parasitic little man would actually...shut...up...  
  
The fight would, if it had been real, been extraordinarily unfair. Rumil, wearing nothing but a short pair of breeches (Celeborn wondered what had happened to the rest of their clothing- their original garb had been taken), was bearing a short, thin sword, even slimmer than the whippy dirk that Tholinsul occasionally used when tired of practising with his usual one. His Lord- currently in badly fitting armour- had a bladed quarterstaff.  
  
A very /heavy/ bladed quarterstaff.  
  
With one very sharp blade on each end.  
  
If this had been a real fight, Rumil would have been dead in seconds. As it was, Celeborn had disarmed him five times already, and was still trying not to cut his former subject's head off.  
  
Or slice him in half.  
  
Or damage him in any other way.  
  
The problem with bladed quarterstaffs is that once you start spinning them down, up, or sideways, it's very hard to stop. The former Lord of Lothlorien had his work cut out in dodging about so that he didn't harm Rumil.  
  
Rumil was finding it difficult to not get whacked on the head with the pole while jabbing the sword he held rather half-heartedly in his Lord's direction.  
  
Of course, he would never have truly attacked Celeborn, but he had to look as if he were trying to.  
  
Both were finding this a complete and utter nightmare.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
"Niltona! Bring me that jar on the table!"  
  
Elenlome glared at the wall as if it were responsible for her predicament.  
  
"My-name-is-/Elenlome /," she ground out. Not that she expected him to hear- in fact, she would have been highly surprised- not to mention displeased- if he had. He probably wouldn't have cared, though. And she'd spoken in Silvian, to be on the safe side.  
  
But her name /was/ Elenlome. Not Niltona. Elenlome. Night Star. Though Niltona was quite pretty, it was not her true identity.  
  
Could be useful though, she mused as she walked over to the table and picked up the delicate amphora pot. If she ever, through some miracle, managed to escape, she'd have a Latin alias. Yes, it'd be useful.  
  
It had been two weeks now. Two weeks since she'd been sold to a metal- merchant who had three ships, which brought him silver, gold, platinum, copper, nickel, and lead from all over Africa, France –although he called it Gaul- and Britain.  
  
She was already pitying the man who'd taken Galadriel on.  
  
Still, she felt more sympathetic towards the slaves.  
  
Any slaves.  
  
It had always shocked and disgusted her that humans would trade in the flesh of people like them. When she had become an Elf, those feelings had intensified tenfold. She had regarded any who would take the sentinant mind and turn it to their will with the utmost loathing.  
  
And now she had become what she had always feared being.  
  
If there was one thing she loved- no. There were many things she loved, but if she narrowed them down to a few...  
  
Elrohir. She loved Elrohir. She loved the way he smiled, the way he spoke, the way he laughed. She loved the twinkle in his eyes and the warmth in his heart. She loved the way he sang gently to her when they were sitting in the mountains at sunset, just the two of them, looking out over the island to the sea. She loved the way he touched her, the way he cared for almost everyone, and she loved all his flaws and faults.  
  
Her family. She loved her human mother and father. She loved her sisters, with their little quirks that made life interesting. She loved her daughters and her son, and the way they were all so different, yet complemented each other in the very motions and gestures that held them apart. She even loved her husband's side of the family, and the little differences that held them all together, no matter what they went through.  
  
Life- except that that went hand in hand with freedom, because her life almost depended on being able to run and leap and shout because she was so, so happy. Life was only good if /something/ in it was your own, if you could state your opinion and speak freely to the people around you. If you could love who you loved and say so, if you could see things and be unbound at the same time, if you could taste fresh air, and choose your own path, then she loved life.  
  
Right now, the only things keeping her going were thoughts of her family and hope for escape.  
  
That hope was a vague hope, but it was there, and she nurtured it.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Celebrian was considering whether it would be better to hold on in hopes of rescue, or simply cut her wrists and have done with it.  
  
Right now, her mind was in favour of 'get it over with'.  
  
In the end, she simply cast a longing look at the sharpened knife beside the window, before turning and making her way into the villa.  
  
The man who had 'purchased' the silver-haired beauty counted himself lucky. Celebrian might be spirited- translation: as stubborn as a mule and vicious to go with it- but she could be subdued.  
  
That didn't stop her trying to break all the furniture, though.  
  
The Eldar who had been 'sold' had had one major problem: none of them spoke Latin. Their new 'masters' had got around that by indicting objects and saying the words, or by actions and gestures, or by simply talking and letting the Elves get the feel of the language.  
  
Elrond's wife had been subjected to the 'beat it into her' approach. Every time she made a mistake, her 'buyer' either slapped or kicked her.  
  
Celebrian stopped making mistakes rather quickly.  
  
She was tired now, tired of life, tired of eating little and working long hours. She was tired in body and tired in spirit, and all that she wanted was to sleep.  
  
Unfortunately, that luxury was currently denied her.  
  
"ALAMA!"  
  
What /now/?  
  
With an exhausted sigh, Celebrian trailed across the floor and wavered up the stairs towards the angry voice. Another problem was that Quanamus seemed to think she was half deaf, and shouted at her instead of speaking quietly. With her Elven hearing, the lady did not need someone bellowing in her direction all day long, or she strongly suspected she /would/ go deaf.  
  
Slightly fearfully, 'Alama' pushed open the door.  
  
The sight that greeted her sent her reeling back in revulsion. Quanamus was sprawled on the floor, his jowls stained red with wine, obviously inebriated. He was surrounded by dirty plates and empty cups, and was waving a chicken leg in one fat hand. He was naked to the waist, and when he saw her, he laughed and gestured for her to enter the room. Trembling somewhat, Celebrian did so.  
  
"'Lama," he slurred, shoving himself up on to one elbow and looking her up and down. Leering at her, he reached out...  
  
...and Celebrian's nerve broke. Whirling, she fled the chamber.  
  
The lady did not stop running until she had left the house and was safely secreted in a bush. The sun had set, and the moon was hiding behind wispy clouds.  
  
'Alama' could not stop shivering. What he had just tried to do...! But no, he had not even come close to it, she had been perfectly safe. Perfectly safe...  
  
He had expected her to accept it. He had thought he could just take her body at will. Well, he was wrong. Eventually she would have to go back in and 'face the music', as Nenya would have said, but for now, she could stay out here.  
  
Better cold than used.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Cold. So cold.  
  
Legolas floated on a roaring sea. Nothing could be seen for miles around but the icy waves and the harsh blue sky.  
  
Nothing.  
  
He was alarmed, but not panicking. There was a slight tinge of the unrealistic to the area, which told him that it was a vision, that was all. Still, it was more realistic than any vision he had ever had.  
  
Legolas did not have foresight- far from it. But one cannot live in Mirkwood for three thousand years without gaining some rather- /unusual/ abilities. Such as utilising almost any weapon to a reasonable degree, knowing where orcs and spiders were without any firm indication, and being able to receive 'images' and 'words' from the surrounding foliage.  
  
The crown Prince of Greenwood had no doubts that someone was trying to tell him something. The question was- who? And what?  
  
"/Young one.../"  
  
He twisted, attempting to see who had spoken.  
  
And then he gasped.  
  
A delicate golden-tan wisp on the air spiralled tightly before almost- solidifying. It whipped about wildly and then fountained outwards in a wondrous implosion of soft, glowing green and reddish, woodlike brown.  
  
Legolas raised a hand to shield his eyes.  
  
When he dared look again, he saw a gentle combination of leaves in bud and new grown wood, like a young sapling with its first crop of leaves.  
  
The way it had 'grown', however, made it look anything but.  
  
It had the face of a lady, merry and bright, yet undeniably noble. As if spring had chosen that moment to become a solid, tangible being, Yvanna stood before him.  
  
He sank to his knees, as well as he could do so considering the fact that he was entrapped in water.  
  
"My Lady."  
  
"Little Leaf."  
  
She regarded him quietly for a moment, while he looked down.  
  
The sky shuddered.  
  
"Valinor shakes and Aule rages," she murmured. "The Lords of two Elven realms and their captains fight with the High King of the Noldor while the Lady of Lothlorien looks to the East to watch the Sun. Stars change in the skies and friends leave, becoming something unknown. The /world/ changes, as the Evenstar said, and who now can say she was wrong? Life has become something that none can understand, and the Eldar hide from enslavement. Who can say what Iluvatar wills? They must be found, little Greenleaf, none must lose what Elvenkind has become..."  
  
/Why?/ he wanted to shout, but then the world was snatched away...  
  
He returned to reality with a bump.  
  
The stars were out, which surprised him. He had not thought that he had been 'seeing' that long. Swiftly collecting the limpets that he had dropped all over the sand, he straightened up and headed off to the Sindarin area of the camp.  
  
'Camp' actually referred to the scatter of half-made lean-tos and shallow holes in the walls of sand dunes that the Eldar had erected, rather than any proper camp. Elves also had shown a preference for staying in racial groups, probably due to the fact that they had close family in those groups.  
  
That hadn't stopped a certain trio of Noldor from setting up base in Thranduil's 'house'.  
  
Nobody had any real objection to Elrohir's children sleeping in the cave/awning that Lothmiren had helped her husband to erect. The three had no other friends to go to- most of the Elves they knew had been taken by the Romans. Now, they just hung around wherever they were needed.  
  
Ninquedil glanced up as Legolas slipped under the crude shelter, giving him a small smile before going back to the tiny pile of hemp beside her.  
  
"Tell me," she commented, not taking her eyes from her work, "is there any point in me attempting to make cloth from this plant? I see no way such a small amount of fabric can help us, and it therefore seems a useless undertaking."  
  
"You said you could make linen," Legolas pointed out, putting four of his limpets on the floor and tipping the rest into a bag, the contents of which would later be distributed to the entire community.  
  
"I know the procedure. I do not know the reason." She flicked a strand of white-gold hair from her face. "Varda in Valinor, it's hot out here."  
  
"In here. We are indoors- as much as is possible."  
  
"And I think that the wood has trapped the heat of the day." She glared at him. "I hate you, do you know that?"  
  
He hid a smile. "I know."  
  
She heaved a sigh. "Sorry. It's just...I like to know /why/, you know? I like to...see the reason for everything. Well, not /everything/, per se, but why I have to do something. I hate just being pointless, I suppose."  
  
He knelt opposite her. "I know that, Nin. And there /is/ a reason- if you can make cloth, and others can do the same, we can make better shelters, make blankets to keep us warm at night- have you noticed how swiftly the temperatures change?"  
  
"Better shelters? With cloth?" She looked down at her hands. "Besides, the wood and sand we use now hold the heat of the sun after sundown."  
  
"True, but we /can/ use fabric for shelter. How many times has your father hung a blanket over a branch when you were walking in the mountains, and had you sleep beneath it? Besides, our current building materials quickly lose their heat."  
  
There was a movement outside, and Haruial followed Thranduil into the shelter.  
  
The leader of those Eldar lucky enough to be in the camps strode over to the bag (formerly a cloak), and examined the contents. Picking it up, he walked out, on his way to the other gatherers and the handing out of food.  
  
Not all those who searched for food- a good majority- found a lot, if any. Those that did would give most of their findings to the rest of the community. It was a relatively equal way of feeding the entire establishment.  
  
Just after her husband had left, Lothmiren entered the cawning, as her daughter had christened it. Tindome and Tholinsul pursued her, and all three had somehow obtained a large quantity of hemp.  
  
Looking rather evilly happy, Tholinsul deposited his heap of the flower/stem/leaf (it being excessively hard to distinguish between them) in front of his sister.  
  
"Here you are, Nin," he said in a far too innocent voice.  
  
"Oh, /lovely/," Ninquedil replied sarcastically. "Just what I wanted. More plants to prick myself with. Thank you oh-so-very-much, Thol."  
  
"Is it not my duty to drive my sibling insane?"  
  
"Why, you little-."  
  
"Oh, stop it, the pair of you," Tindome interrupted, draping herself over the floor.  
  
Lothmire nodded in agreement, gathering the tiny portion of food that had left for them into a kind of big shell that had been found in abundance.  
  
Unfortunately, most of the creatures inside said shells had now been eaten.  
  
Rations were hard to find now. Most things had been consumed, and they needed to find a more economical way of feeding themselves. Unless they did so soon, they would starve.  
  
Thranduil re-entered the hovel and sat down beside his son. The little knot of Firstborn remained silent for a while, staring into the small fire that Haruial had built.  
  
Eventually, fingers dipped into the 'bowl' that was being passed around, coming out dripping with limpet stew. At last, the Elves lay down to sleep.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elrond was feeling extremely annoyed.  
  
The same could be said of all those Elves currently in the training arena.  
  
After ten hours of motion, which consisted of mock duels, running, and other fight 'preparations', all under a blazing sun, this was probably not surprising. Actually, the Eldar had more than enough excuses to be very angry, but had settled for feeling vaguely irritated- due to the fact that they were concerned about their kin. This was the only real thing stopping them from going completely homicidal on their new 'owners'.  
  
They had finally been allowed out of the area when Orophin had shattered the shaft of his spear against the wall...not really unexpected, his balance had been off all day due to the whipping he and his brothers had received the day before after trying to strangle a guard...again.  
  
The trio had shown an inordinate fondness for injuring their jailors. So far, they had been beaten five times, twice for attempted throttling, once for stealing food (which was later given to the twins, who hadn't been fed for two days- punishment for cursing at/trying to strike the instructor), once for impudence- i.e.: making rude gestures to lure someone into a pitfall- and once for smuggling a sword into the corridor leading to the cells and trying to dissect the man on guard.  
  
The buzzing of needless instruction rang in the Elf Lord's ears as he wiped the blade of the broadsword and hefted it into the rack. Elrond briefly thought of slicing the rack in half, but then rationalised that it would be a pointless outlet of frustration, and no doubt he would end up with a rather sore back.  
  
The flash came far too suddenly. Beside Elladan, he seemed to see his wife. Celebrian was crying quietly, gazing at him in hopeless despair. She reached out to touch her son, her silver hair stuck to her face with tears...  
  
...and, as she moved, she flickered and vanished. Elrond was left staring at a bare stone wall.  
  
Someone shoved him roughly in the direction of the food hall, and he stumbled off, still almost incapable of believing what he had seen.  
  
Why had she been crying? Why had she been looking at him with a face so empty, it seemed that she was almost a void? As though she would never feel again? Because he had seen that expression before, when she had been carried back to Imladris after the orcs had taken her, and he had been forced to send her over the sea. It was the look of the utterly broken, or too near utterly broken. It was a look he hated to see, a look he absolutely despised, especially when it appeared on the face of his beloved.  
  
"Ada?"  
  
Elrohir gently took his arm, guiding him to the table.  
  
"Higher than the sun, faster than the moon," he muttered, so softly that none but his father could catch the words.  
  
/Did he just say what I think he said? /  
  
Elrond turned his head and stared at his son. How could he know- because his father could speak to him, in some way, and Olorin had once told him that Earendil was /higher than the sun /...  
  
Too tired to work on that mystery. Far too tired. All he wanted to do was sleep, and think of his wife.  
  
But when he did get to sleep, later that night, it was not Celebrian he dreamed of, but Arwen.  
  
He remembered her face, laughing and beautiful, as she sang in the Hall of Fire, or walked the gardens of Rivendell. He saw again the way she joked with her brothers, and how she had sat curled against her mother and grandmother in Lorien. He dreamed of her voice, and how she had been an indomitable spirit, unable to simply wait while Sauron reached out over Middle-Earth.  
  
And then he thought of his mother. He beheld Elwing's face as it had been when she leaped from the cliff, clutching the Simaril, before the eyes of himself and his brother. He saw her laughing with her twin sons, and her glare when he and Elros had done something incredibly stupid- usually aboard their father's boat. He remembered the way she had kept them safe, always there, even when the sons of Feanor had approached their home- always there.  
  
She should have been called Elwing the Protector.  
  
Because she had defended them until she had no other choice.  
  
And then Elwing's face melted into Arwen's, and he saw how akin to one another they truly were.  
  
Evening Star and Star Spray.  
  
Unconquerable to the end.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
/Elwing the Protector,

And Earendil the Mariner,

Star Spray and Star Dome,

The children they bore.

Mortal and immortal,

Defender of the Simaril,

Sailor of the Morning Star,

A loving family.

Undomiel the Evenstar,

Estel the King of Gondor,

Mortal life from immortal, The fate Arwen chose.

Daughter of Celebrian,

Child of Vilya's bearer,

Bound herself to hope of Men,

And passed from Elven mind. /  
  
Thranduil paused in his work, listening intently. He had almost heard something then, like a whisper on the breeze...no. He could not have. There was no-one here who would have cause to sing of the daughter of Dios and Queen of Gondor. Elenlome's offspring, perhaps, but they were not singing, they were sewing. Or rather, Ninquedil was weaving, Tindome was mending a misshapen fishing net, and Tholinsul was up to his waist in the stream, trying to catch a trout.  
  
The trout had been a spot of good luck. Cirlith and Celebrimbor had come in laden with the creatures, and announced that quite a few were swimming downstream.  
  
In reality, there was a glut. Huge numbers of trout were swimming upriver to spawn. They had missed the shoals going up, but caught the beginning of those who were returning to the sea. What with all the salt they had found in a certain small bay two miles downriver, they would definitely be able to preserve some of the fish for at least four more months.  
  
And then there was the 'lake' where the trout had originally been heading. Splashing some way against the current had revealed a place where the river slowed until it was barely moving, and broadened out considerably. Trees of many different kinds grew here, and rabbits, hares, even deer frequented the area. The trout had actually swum past it, but this was where the eggs would hatch, having been carried down by the water flow.  
  
Thranduil had had to order the people not to eat too much fruit/nuts/edible leaves, in case they accidentally wiped the trees out.  
  
A quick examination of the land revealed that the part of the river the Eldar were camping by, along with the lake, were invisible from beyond the dunes that surrounded them.  
  
And now Thranduil was sure that, in a few weeks, he and Legolas would be able to start the search for their companions.  
  
Others would want to come with them, but he was confidant in his abilities to hide what he was planning until he had done it and gone. The problem would be explaining it to his family- and the three Noldor children. Haruial, Tholinsul, and Ninquedil would want to accompany him, his wife might tie him to her wrist, and Tindome was the only one he could trust to just let him get on with it. Any of the others could very well tell a dozen fighters about it, and then their cover would be blown.  
  
Thranduil stopped dead. Across the track of the rabbit he had been hunting, there was a scrap of leather.  
  
With trembling hands, he bent to pick it up, both hoping and dreading that it was what he thought.  
  
As he held it to the light, he knew that there could be no mistake.  
  
It was a piece of Glorfindel's sword sheath.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Erestor was in a very bad mood.  
  
There was a reason for this.  
  
Erestor was in a bad mood because the man who had 'bought' him thought he was a scribe.  
  
Erestor /was/ a scribe. Or at least a recorder. But he couldn't write in Latin.  
  
So now he was sitting at a desk with a large scroll, scanning its contents for information. He'd been doing this for the last five hours, and, although he admittedly no longer needed someone to 'translate' every other word through broken Latin and actions, he was not making very good progress. For one thing, he had to learn a new alphabet.  
  
He was also having to work out what the words he was reading sounded like, in order to correctly write them down when he heard them.  
  
So far, his parchment (the one he was translating on to) looked something like this.  
  
/Dash over letter =long sound. Pecunia=money (present tense). Servi=slaves (plural). Grammar structure=somewhat incomprehendable. /  
  
(There is a lot of random Latin here.)  
  
/Translation of last line: Alama Niltona beauty work money much. Literally, Alama and Niltona are beautiful workers and bring much money. /  
  
Erestor stared at the scroll for a moment, then pulled out another parchment. This one was a record of the Eldar's other names. Using the first scroll (a record of who had been sold the day they arrive in Rome), and what he had heard since that first hellish day, he had quite an accurate knowledge of who was where.  
  
Running a finger down it, he frowned at two of the names.  
  
/Celeborn=Hartus (amphitheatre).

Celebrian=?

Elenlome=?

Elrond=Eragus (amphitheatre). /  
  
He now altered it slightly, using the list in front of him.  
  
/Celebrian=Alama (Quanamus Etholit Lire).

Elenlome=Niltona (Gaulius Rention Qunerius). /  
  
There. Done.  
  
Carefully, he slid the writing about aliases and locations back into its hiding place. After all, he had a pretty good 'master', compared to some. And he was better off than most slaves. He did /not/ want to be found out. Much better all round that he collected information in secret.  
  
Yes, he thought, much better all round. If what he had gathered remained undiscovered, then maybe someone could use it.  
  
Use it to stage an escape.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: Right! Bit of a long chapter- and I wrote it in two days. After spending three days in a /barn/. /Glares. I don't know where my parents get their vacation ideas, I really don't. Though it was kind of fun.../sighs wistfully. Anyhow, here's chapter...six, I think. Yes, six. And I'm glad that you lot are enjoying the story. No, really. You reviewers make my day. You have no idea how nice it is to come home to a good, positive review.  
  
And Haruial actually means Southern Twilight.


	7. Escape Into Fate

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it all.  
  
A/N: There is something linking to _Twilight of Stars_ in this chapter. Remember what I said in the A/N?  
  
Escape Into Fate.  
  
The metal plates rubbed over his body. His skin was sticky with sweat and his heart was racing so hard it was actually painful.  
  
Tomorrow. Language barriers there were, but he still had been told. Tomorrow.  
  
Tomorrow, he would be sent out in a mad fight for his life.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Galadriel sighed. Over at last.  
  
Today had been far too long- an unusual feeling, in an immortal. But then, who had ever heard of an Elf being a slave?  
  
"Nivida," she murmured, looking up at the sky.  
  
Alarm overcame her suddenly, sweeping throughout her soul and leaving her dizzy with fear. There was no visible reason, it just came.  
  
"_Celeborn_!" she cried, turning towards the apparent origin of the feeling. It must have come from her husband, it had to, there was no reason for her to have such an emotion...  
  
Probing at his thoughts, she found-  
  
_No! They must not fight, they cannot! Ai, ai, why can we not be left in peace? Elrond, Elrohir, why? Why must they be sent out, into this INSANITY?!_  
  
Artanis withdrew in shock. Her son-in-law and grandson, being sent into the arena? Why? She could think of no reason why...  
  
Wait, yes, she could. Amusement. They set human on human for their disgusting entertainment, why not Elf on human? Although, to them, The Eldar were just another group of humans, so why should they care? Even if they knew they were Firstborn, they would not treat them with respect. Far from it, they would be put on show.  
  
Galadriel dropped her bucket and ran.  
  
Need gave her wings. With a single tremendous bound, she leaped to the top of the wall, and then off it, speeding away down the lane, heading for the amphitheatre.  
  
People tried to stop her, but she dodged them, flying on to Rome, heedless of the shouts and cries behind her.  
  
Her bare feet hammered at the dusty road. Dusk was falling, and as Galadriel came onto a clear stretch of the path, she began to glow, faintly.  
  
There was no-one else in sight. The Lady was alone, choosing her own path, going to meet and comfort those she might never see again.  
  
Olive trees had decorated one side of the road for a time, but now she was clear of them, and the sun was setting, and a glowing figure in white crested the hilltop and pounded down the winding road to the city.  
  
She dodged the officials. Feinting to the right, she switched suddenly to the left, then cleared the first man's shoulder with a jump, kicked herself over the gate, and landed in Rome.  
  
She vaguely remembered the direction they had gone in the first time, but that had been through a different entrance, so now she merely followed the line of emotion.  
  
Or rather, she went for the origin of the alarm.  
  
Turning silently through the streets, she grabbed at the occasional mind for directions to her destination. There wasn't any trouble in getting them to think about the place. Everyone was eager to see the 'show' the next day. Far too eager. The Lady frowned. There was something wrong with a race this bloodthirsty.  
  
_Very_ wrong.  
  
At last, she reached it.  
  
The amphitheatre towered over her. It loomed against the last dying rays of the sun. It was a squat giant, glaring at her, hating her.  
  
Well, she hated it.  
  
Soft as a feather, she ran toward a barred door in the side of the wall. Looking for a tunnel. Not just any tunnel, but a specific tunnel.  
  
There.  
  
Galadriel gently slid through it and slipped into the murky passage below.  
  
The floor was damp, and the walls were decorated with wooden doors, yet the Lady knew instinctively that nobody lay behind them. She was standing beside storerooms; the cells were further down the corridor.  
  
So she went further down the corridor.  
  
Rats. They skittered on the corners, feeding on old food and the cockroaches that frequented the place. This entire underground system was infested. It was a disgusting area to put any sentinant being in.  
  
Artanis shuddered.  
  
Eventually, she came to a branch in the passage. Taking the left, she walked on.  
  
And then she found Celeborn.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
The Elf-Lord sat in the corner of the tiny chamber. He was somewhat in shock. And why should he not be? Two Elves dear to him could well be dead by sundown the next day. Quite likely he was never going to see them again. He would eat after they did- for those that were due to battle ate earlier than normal. He would be kept inside while they fought. They were both excellent fighters, but if, by some horrible, horrible mishap, one or both of them died, he did not know if he could take it.  
  
And then _she_ came.  
  
Galadriel knelt by the bars of his cell. She was clad all in white, and, although she was filthy, she somehow exuded an aura of hope and love and serenity to all around her. Her face creased in sorrow, she reached out to him, and Celeborn leaned over, half walking, half crawling to the door.  
  
When he touched her, he knew she was real.  
  
And then he was crying, gripping her wrists, his tears falling unchecked to the rough stone floor, while his wife cried with him.  
  
"_Meleth-nin_," he whispered, somehow reaching through the bars to embrace her. She pulled him closer, and then they held each other tightly, heedless of the metal bars between them.  
  
"_Meleth-nin_," she gasped, sobbing quietly, "_Meleth-nin_, I wish...I wish it were not...oh, love, how can they? _How can they_?!"  
  
"I know not, my love, but I would not sit idle and not speak to them, yet I cannot! I shall not see them until the fight is over- and maybe then only their dead bodies! Oh, Galadriel..."  
  
"Hush," she murmured against his hair. "Hush, love, I shall...what would you say to them?"  
  
"I would tell them that I love them- I would tell Elrohir to be strong...I would tell Elrond that Luthien and Beren themselves would be proud of what he has done...I would tell them- I am not sure- I would- tell them to be careful. Please, Artanis..."  
  
"Anything, _meleth-nin_, anything! Shh, now, they will know."  
  
Gently removing herself from his arms, she straightened up, raising a hand slightly, and vanished down the tunnel.  
  
He watched her go with a small smile.  
  
He had seen his wife.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Galadriel walked lightly down the passage.  
  
She was listening.  
  
Most of the cells contained humans, who did not hear her. Even the sleeping Elves did not hear her footfall.  
  
Eventually, she found Elrond's cell.  
  
The Peredhil was slumped on the ground, his face pale. He looked as though he had been praying to the Valar when he had fallen asleep. His dark hair was spread over the floor.  
  
She regarded him for a small time, and then gently tapped the wall.  
  
"Lord Elrond! Brother of Elros, awaken!"  
  
The half-Elf stirred, and then glanced up, clearly wondering who would wake him in this Valar-forsaken hour, especially since they knew his true name- and his brother's. Then his eyes lit on her, and he froze.  
  
"Lady Galadriel," he said softly, inclining his head.  
  
"Son of Elwing," she responded, bowing hers.  
  
"What brings you to this place at this time of the night?"  
  
"The knowledge that you and my grandson may soon depart this world." She looked at him shrewdly. "Never underestimate the bond between husband and wife. Celeborn knew, and accidentally told me. I have lost none of my feelings for him, and can still feel his mind." She knelt to his level. "He bids you know that he cares for you, and that Luthien and Beren themselves would be proud."  
  
Elrond was silent for a while, then- "I thank you for bringing me this news, mother of Celebrian. Are you going to my son?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"Please," he almost choked, "tell him I love him, and Celebrian loves him...and that- that- that he is to be careful. Lady, please..."  
  
"I shall tell him." She stood, looking sad. "Fight well, son of Earendil. May the Valar grant you victory. _Namarie_."  
  
She was gone before he could reply.  
  
She found Elladan's chamber before she found his brother's. The Elf was lying propped against the wall. He was awake, but unresponsive. The Lady passed him by, and went to his twin.  
  
"Elrondion!"  
  
Elrohir snapped out of sleep as if he had been slapped. His head jerked up, and he looked around wildly, seemingly searching for someone. When he saw her, however, he frowned.  
  
"Grandmother. What are you _doing _here?"  
  
"Is that any way to greet your mother's mother?"  
  
"Oh, er, I am sorry, Lady, it's just that-."  
  
"I know. Quiet, Elrohir- I did not come all this way to be caught by the guard at the end of this passage! Why do you start at the name of Elrondion?"  
  
She could sense it in his mind- hope and longing, longing for something he had seen once and desired to see again...  
  
...the light of the Two Trees.  
  
"I...Grandmother, they..."  
  
Artanis held up a hand. "Your father and mother love you, Elrohir, as do your grandfather and I. Be strong, little star lord, be careful. Fight well."  
  
She did not have much time.  
  
"_Namarie_."  
  
She turned and fled.  
  
The stone cut at her bare feet. She was running toward the light at the end of the tunnel. She had to get there before the next guard arrived. It was split-second timing- she needed to leave the passage just _after_ the first man had left, and as the second was rounding the corner. It was the slimmest of gaps, and she needed to meet it dead on. If she didn't, she'd be caught.  
  
She nearly didn't make it.  
  
The second man was just around the corner when she flew out. He rubbed his eyes, not sure what he had seen, and when he looked again she was gone.  
  
Galadriel ran as if Morgoth was after her. She bounded over handcarts and frightened horses. She hurtled up a half- built shop and raced along the roofs. She caused chaos in the streets and panic in the market. She knocked down stalls and tripped up bystanders.  
  
She darted through Rome's now-open gates and pounded up the hill. She was racing the sundial now, trying to _get back to the farm_ before anyone noticed her absence.  
  
Too late.  
  
Her 'master' caught her, as, exhausted, she trailed through the arch in the wall that served as an entrance.  
  
The Lady was soon wishing she'd gone faster.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
"_Elwing the Protector,_

_ And Earendil the Mariner_,"  
  
Elrond was singing softly, trying to keep his spirit up.  
  
"_Star Spray and Star Dome, _

_The children they bore. _

_Mortal and immortal, _

_Defender of the Simaril_,"  
  
The sun hammered down on the stone colossus that was the place where he would fight for his life.  
  
"_Sailor of the Morning Star, _

_A loving family._

_  
  
_  
_Undomiel the Evenstar, _

_Estel the King of Gondor, _

_Mortal life from immortal, _

_The fate Arwen chose_."  
  
Was it his fate to die out there, or to live?  
  
"_Daughter of Celebrian, _

_Child of Vilya's bearer_,"  
  
Only he did not bear Vilya any more, she had been taken from him.  
  
"_Bound herself to Hope of Men, _

_And passed from Elven mind_."  
  
But she hadn't. They still remembered her, mourned her. Better to say _mortal_ mind then Elven, because these humans had clearly forgotten her.  
  
The gate swung open.  
  
Elrond was thrust out.  
  
And bit back a cry of horror.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Elrohir gazed at his father in despair. What now? Was he expected to attack his Ada? Because he couldn't do that, no he could not...  
  
It was the cruellest thing the Romans had done so far.  
  
Elrond walked towards him.  
  
Elrohir strode toward his father.  
  
The two stopped in the centre of the arena, facing one another. Grey eyes met, and both knew that to do what was wanted of them would be to betray every scrap of sanity and virtue that they still possessed.  
  
The older Elf's eyes slid sideways, resting on the men around the edge of the ring.  
  
The guards were carrying Elven weapons.  
  
The two moved too quickly for an arrow to hit or blow to land. They twisted at the wall, and dodged behind the one bearing Elrond's sword.  
  
A chipped, but undeniably sharp blade was held to his throat.  
  
"Give it back," the Elf-Lord hissed in the man's ear. "Now."  
  
With trembling fingers, the guard undid the sword-belt and held it behind his back.  
  
"Thank you." Elrond buckled it about his waist, then took the blade he had been issued, jabbed the tip into a crack in the stonework, and snapped it.  
  
"Bad metalwork," Elrohir commented.  
  
Turning so that he was still shielded by the human's body, yet facing into the arena, he indicated the one carrying his sword. He held out his hand.  
  
The man carrying it crossed the sandy floor and placed it in his palm before backing off hurriedly.  
  
Elrohir treated the gladiator blade the same way his father had.  
  
Elrond looked out at the spectators and guards.  
  
"Homo venit?" he called out, "homo mortuus." (Translation: Man come? Man dead. Literally, if anyone follows, I'll kill them. Excuse my mangled Latin grammar, I've only taken it for two years, and one of my teachers was more concerned with myths.)  
  
Then, like a cat, he released his captive and had cleared the wall before any could stop him, his son following after.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
In the camp, Tindome leapt to her feet.  
  
"_Run, Ada!_" she shouted, dashing out of the lean-to before Legolas' startled eyes. "_Run, Ada, run! Hurry! We're here! WE'RE HERE!_"  
  
Part laughing, part crying, she splashed across the stream and ran halfway up the hill before she collapsed, gasping, and sobbing with joy and pain and relief.  
  
"_Valar guide you_!" she cried, and then simply lay on the hillside, black hair strewn out over the ground, panting slightly, and gazing up at the blue sky.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
Thranduil started.  
  
For a moment, Iluvatar's song had seemed to swell, filling him with triumph and exultation. Something had happened, something good, he was sure of it. He didn't care what it was, all that mattered was that it had happened.  
  
And whatever it was, he looked forward to seeing its results.  
  
"By Elbereth and Manwe," he said softly, hoping that, if the disturbance was caused by a sentinant being, his prayer would somehow get through, "let your path be clear, and your will be strong!"  
  
He turned and strode toward the settlement.  
  
Everywhere was evidence of the change in the song. Vanya and Teleri were talking amongst themselves excitedly, Noldor were staring around in confusion, the Sindar were dashing about picking things up and making strange patterns, and the Silvian folk had burst into song. The Nandar were simply sitting there, smiling at nothing in particular.  
  
Thranduil felt tears fill his own eyes at the sight.  
  
All of a sudden, his son and daughter came pelting out of the shelter that they were living in.  
  
"Elrond's escaped!"  
  
"Elrohir is free!"  
  
"_What?_ How do you know this?"  
  
Haruial had succumbed to giggles, so the king of Mirkwood turned to his son.  
  
Legolas was grinning broadly.  
  
"It makes sense, does it not? Iluvatar hates for his children to be imprisoned. Surely he would be jubilant if two of them were to escape! Besides..." He looked up at his father solemnly. "A few minutes ago, Tindome left the shelter, extremely excited. We heard her shouting to...her father." He took a deep breath. "She was telling him to run. But she was laughing as she did so. Father, she might be young, but I think- Ninquedil tells me she can often know if we, her grandparents, or her great-grandparents are visiting- _before_ she's been told."  
  
Thranduil was slightly sceptical of this.  
  
"Legolas, Ninquedil is often sarcastic. She might not have meant what she said."  
  
"I know _that_. Adar, she was not being sarcastic, I am certain. Besides, it was after one of those times when her brother got her highly drunk and she took out her anger at having a hangover on me. She's _never _sarcastic then- I think it's because she doesn't have any more energy for sarcasm."  
  
Thranduil considered that. It _did _make sense...but...  
  
"You say she was calling to her father. What of Lord Elrond?"  
  
"Gandalf was on the hill she stopped on. She wasn't sure what she'd seen, but he worked it out. Very fast. Then he came running into the cawning looking for you. He said it was important, told us what had happened, then went to find you."  
  
"Indeed I did, young Sinda," said an amused voice behind the Elf. "And now it appears that I have. King Thranduil, if you and your son wish to depart now, then the Maiar and your wife have no objection to holding the camp together until your return."  
  
The Elven-King was not too surprised.  
  
"Very well, Olorin, we shall leave as soon as possible. Time is crucial, and I do not wish to linger when we may find two of our companions. Know you where they are?"  
  
Mithrandir shook his head sadly.  
  
"Nay, I do not. But I do know that you will find them near a city, travelling south. More than that- no."  
  
"It is a start, at any rate. We shall be gone within the day. Until we meet again...hopefully with two Noldor!"  
  
"Until we meet again. King Thranduil- if you do not find them within the month, then turn back! For they know which road we took, and if you do not meet them, then they have been retaken- or killed."  
  
The king gave a short laugh.  
  
"I shall heed your advice."  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
_Thud. Thud. Thud_.  
  
Elrond's feet beat at the dry, hard earth.  
  
_Get away from the city_.  
  
They must be several miles out already, yet still they ran. Adrenaline was surging through their bodies, pushing them to an almost unbelievable speed, considering that they had already come fifteen miles. They were still going strong.  
  
They had to move, that was all he knew. They had to leave this terrible place of death and hate, had to _get away while it's possible_...  
  
They could stand no more of those people.  
  
" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "  
  
A/N: Yes, chapter over. Yes, I updated abnormally fast. I know. Sooooo...two of our Eldar have escaped, Galadriel decided to go meet her husband, and Thranduil's set off! Here's to hoping he finds our half-Elves before the Romans do...although I'm not making any promises. PLEASE review, it takes less than a minute.


	8. Seizing a Chance

Disclaimer: I don't own the Eldar. Or the Romans, history gets them. Er, or the Three, the Elves get those.

A/N: Sad, isn't it? My torture fic, which is a grand total of two chapters long, has more reviews than _this _fic, currently seven chapters long- okay, eight. And by now _Tired of Life and Death: Shadow King_ is most likely three chapters long. But still…no fair!

Seizing a Chance.

Thranduil jogged gently over the slight rise of the sandy ground. The lightweight sword in its sheath thumped against his leg with every stride he took, but he barely noticed it as his eyes scanned the horizon.

_Searching, searching, ever searching, as the lordly sun beats down,_

_Scan the distance, look for danger, finding friends on unknown ground._

He had to know.

What had become of Elrond and Elrohir? Tindome had only inherited a tiny amount of Elrond's foresight; whatever she saw- and she rarely saw _anything_- was misty and uncertain. None of the three children were anything more than average, really. Maybe more cynical, **definitely** more sarcastic, unnervingly sadistic at times, and possessed with a disturbing tendency to disregard authority- probably they'd inherited those traits from their mother. But really- just average.

So, she'd supposedly seen a city. The two Elves now moving swiftly through Italy had only found a small town so far, nothing like the towering rise of stone that Olorin had described. But for the fact that Gandalf had confirmed what they were looking for, Thranduil would have already passed off her vision as a heat-induced hallucination.

Whiteness glared suddenly in the distance. A huge object was thrown into sharp relief, light glancing keenly into his eyes. It dominated the normally unbroken line of the horizon, and the former Elvenking was assaulted by a peculiar combination of relief and dread. The place they saw now was most definitely a city- possibly even the one that they were searching for. But…

So far, Thranduil's experience with large, unknown buildings was that they were almost inevitably accompanied by pain, orcs/Nazgul/vengeful Haradrim/slavers, whips/swords/clubs, and a general deterioration of his health. Unless he was led in by a trusted friend, the Sinda preferred to keep any place more than two hundred and fifty metres tall and thrice that wide at a good few miles from his person. Rome definitely fell into the category of 'should be avoided'.

However, it did not look like they were going to be able to avoid it. This was the only city that they had found so far, and they had to see if their two stray Peredhil were nearby. Two half-Elves could not survive more than five days in the desert without water. Elrond and his son had been free for a week. Dehydration was going to be a serious problem.

Now that they had an 'anchor point', the pair increased their speed, searching ever more desperately. Their keen eyes whipped over the earth, missing nothing, not even a bird. Yet there was naught to be seen of their quarry. Just sand, dirt, birds, rocks, stunted shrubs, the occasional rabbit, and a miniscule, muddy puddle. There were no Eldar in _this_ range of sight…so there were several possibilities. Wrong city, the pair had passed them, the two were too far ahead to be seen yet, or they had been recaptured. Thranduil was fervently hoping for the third option.

Swift limbs ate up the miles- and then, not too far away, two thin, black-headed figures, lying exhausted in the scant shadow of a slim, wilted apple tree.

It was Elrond and Elrohir.

The pair were simply sprawled on the ground, unable to move. Wasted frames twisted slightly away from the lashing heat of the sun's rays, the two did not even stir as their hunters came up to them. Their eyes were half-lidded, indicating extreme hunger, dangerous thirst, and lethargy. Neither made any motion whatsoever as Legolas and his father gently knelt beside them- until Thranduil tried to turn Elrohir onto his back.

The Noldo groaned softly, attempting to move his face out of the direct light. His eyelids fluttered, his lips moved slightly, and one hand twitched, as though he was trying to cover his eyes, but were incapable of summoning the energy to do so. His features clenched slightly, a vague suggestion of fear flitting over the parched face. The Elvenking carefully moved his own body into the path of the sun's burning rays, supporting the starved Elf while his free hand picked up his water skin. Gently tilting the other's head backwards, he allowed a single drop of the precious liquid to trickle past the dry lips.

The reaction took a moment to happen. Then Elrohir's throat moved as he swallowed slowly. A quick grimace of pain followed this simple gesture; the Elf's mouth and throat were dry and dusty, making any constriction difficult to handle.

Thranduil allowed a few more drops to trickle into the half-Elf's open mouth. Elrohir began to try and move up towards the flask, gulping greedily at the water. The Sinda removed the bottle; he didn't want the young Noldo to drink too much too fast, which would be a _very_ bad idea.

Out of the corner of his eye, he just glimpsed his son taking care of Elrond in the same fashion. Giving a slight, unseen nod of approval, he carefully pulled the Peredhil into his strong arms, lightly supporting the wasted frame. The younger being grumbled quietly, and nestled into his chest. Taking extreme pains not to cause unnecessary discomfort to the child-like figure huddled in his warm, cautious embrace, he climbed to his feet.

"Hush, young one," he whispered tenderly. "Legolas? I should not think that he will be too heavy for you in his current state."

His son gave a stiff nod, before carefully collecting the older Ringbearer into his youthful, powerful arms. It was strange, Thranduil mused, to see the wise and independent Lord of Imladris lying, curled up like an Elfling of few summers, in the hold of one several centuries his younger. But then…

So much had happened. They had thought that all of the Elves inhabiting Valinor at the time of the Breaking –which was still unexplained –had been thrown onto Arda, but that was not the case, as he had deduced with a few day's thought. None of the House of Finwe was there, for example, none of the House of Ingwe. He would have automatically deferred to someone from either family, but they were simply not there. Neither had he seen a terrible amount of the Nandar, who had lived in their small 'colonies' along the estuaries. And even of the other races, the numbers were hardly the same as they had been in Aman. There could only be two explanations. Either the others had been left behind…or they were dead.

The time-jolt that the Valar had sent them through had not been very effective. Basic calculations had revealed that they had only been forced back a couple of years, which they would quickly catch up with, as time in Valinor would be slowed for a while so that the land could be fixed. Therefore, it would be a while until they knew what had transpired.

Returning his attention to the present situation, the Elvenking began to casually examine his new patient as best as he could while on the move. Elrohir was starved, lethargic, and parched. The muscles in his lower limbs were strained and swollen; possibly torn. He had cracked a bone in his forearm, and he was suffering from sunstroke. He also appeared to be hallucinating, from what the Sinda could see. All in all, the Half-Elf was quite a mess.

Watching the dazed eyes, he ran on, before having to look away so as to see where he was going. The Half-Elf was incredibly light in his arms, almost like a bag of feathers instead of a living being. His dark hair drifted in wispy strands about his face. It was easy for Thranduil to carry him over the sandy desert.

He looked almost longingly at the bright, lush land nearer the city, but decided against heading for the inhabited area. The last thing that they needed was to be seen by somebody as they looked for food, which they could find on the way back anyway.

The sand shifted silkily under his dry, smooth feet as he fumbled to stay standing. The boy's weight was throwing him slightly off-balance, and he wasn't finding it as easy to move over the deserted waste. Behind him, he could hear his son breathing heavily; stumbling a little with the burden of Elrond huddled in his arms. He was feeling a little weak himself.

_No. Must stand. Must continue. Children. People. All lost. Don't know anything. Must get back to them. Lead them. They need me. They need Elrond. Children. Adolescents. Need Elrohir. Must get back. Cannot stop. Cannot die._

_If I stop, I will die, and then they will not have a leader anymore, or at least not one who was raised to protect people in situations like the one that we are all in now, and then they will run, and they will be caught. No, Mithrandir is there, he will take care of them. Radagast –is Radagast with him? I do not know, I was so busy with my people. _

_Wait. I am becoming unfocused. I have to think of the here and now. Yes, that's right. Sun and sand and comatose Half-Elf. That's right. Keep on running. You know the way._

And then he knew that he could not sustain the increased and straining pace that he had set for them both. He slewed to a ragged halt, his breath jerking through his lungs, and looked exhaustedly at his almost spent child.

The two Sindar had covered forty miles in two hours, on foot, in a desert, under a midday sun, in mid-summer, without a rest. They had been moving steadily for the previous thirteen days. It was quite a feat, even for an Elf-Lord. More so when it was acknowledged that neither had eaten as much as they would have liked to recently.

Gently laying Elrohir down, he reached for his water-skin, sipping lightly from the contents, before kneeling to trickle some into the Peredhil. The younger Elf groaned softly, his tongue flicking weakly out to catch a glimmering drop.

Then he looked up clearly into the Elvenking's slate-blue eyes with his own storm-grey ones, and spoke, only just audibly.

"They have two of the Three."

Thranduil froze, horror and shock jolting horribly through his system. No, no, he could not possibly have heard right…

"_What?!_"

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

The woman lifted her head from the wine jar that she was carrying, and stared out over the houses. Her silver hair still hung over her shoulders, but had been neatly gathered back in a headscarf so that it stayed put. Her lilac-blue eyes were still sharp and clear, her mind still alert…but the body that supported all of these had changed a lot.

The wind teased at the tattered, soft brown dress that trailed from her thinning frame. The bones forming her eye sockets and jaw were horribly clear, the skin clenching over her cheekbones. Her figure was terribly gaunt, approaching skeletal –although she had managed to retain enough strength to lift a wine jar.

Celebrian was a far cry from what she had been in Valinor. She had lost weight. Her skin had tightened and dried in the relentless sun. Without her family, uncertain even if they lived, she had been refusing most food and drink. The result had been to turn her into a dehydrated, hungry, swiftly weakening frame of protruding bone and little flesh.

But she was still noticeably Eldarin. The way her body had been shaped was distinctly more lovely than a human woman's figure, her height was greater, and she walked with queenly grace. Perhaps many of the other slaves looked at her askance, but she was the wife of Lord Elrond of Imladris, and she was determined to retain her dignity.

Glancing around quickly, she slipped a thumb into the rim of the amphora, and gently tasted the rich, sticky paste that had once been fine wine –before some of it had congealed, of course. However, if anything, it had become sweeter. She closed her eyes briefly, savouring the flavour.

But all too soon, reality demanded her attention again. She could not wait. Tiredly, she picked up the jar from where it rested its base on the floor, and set off wearily for the house.

"I miss you, _meleth_," she whispered. "And I miss Elrohir, and Elladan. I want to see their faces, hear them laughing. I want to feel your arms around me." The dust rose in clouds about her bare, worn feet. "I want you here. I want to feel the safety that you always give to me. But you are not here, and so I cannot."

She glanced out, over the walls of the farm. Her mother was not too far away; just a few farms over –although, given that each farm spanned over a mile each way, she could have been closer. Still, just knowing where she was was a comfort.

Smiling to herself, she dragged the heavy amphora up the stairs, over a landing, up _more_ stairs, deliberately walked past the room Quanamus had wanted her to put it in, found a ladder to the flat roof, then deposited her burden on the floor. She climbed up, undid the latch, opened the trapdoor, and went down again to collect the jar. Once certain that it was secure, she hauled it up onto the roof.

The sun slapped her head.

She rolled the wine jar neatly to the edge of the roof, looked over to examine the distance to the ground, and grinned. Wickedly.

Then she pushed the amphora over the ridge at the edge of the flat roof.

It made quite a nice sight, she decided. Some of the wine got out on the way down, and glinted in the sunlight –a lovely, ruby-lilac colour. Of course, the sight and sound of it smashing were even lovelier.

From below, somebody yelled incoherently in rage. Celebrian smiled, shutting the trapdoor. Then she calmly jumped off, neatly landing on a protruding windowsill. From there, it was an easy jump to the ground.

Then she dashed off again to hide in the bushes. She was getting _good_ at that.

Although maybe one would have expected her 'owners' to get used to it by now.

Two hours later, she emerged from the pretty, flowering shrubs that adorned the edge of the yard. Sitting cramped up in a small space for a long time without moving was a useful skill, but not a very pleasant one. At least, not a very pleasant one after your muscles started to stiffen up. She stretched delicately, limbering up the ridged muscles.

She was going to be in a lot of trouble when they caught her, but it had been worth it. She'd managed to create such a confusion that the loss of two rolls of parchment, a quill, a small bowl, and some ink had gone completely unnoticed. She now had the means to write a letter, although she couldn't send it.

_Dear Elrond,_ she wrote.

_I have been 'sold' to…well; I would assume that he is a farmer, although I have yet to see him work as one. Mostly the labourers do that, of course, but he does not even come out to oversee their toils more than once every two months. Instead, he conducts his farm from his house. I do not think that the overseers obey his instructions closely, for if they did he would be ruined. To be fair, though, he does have some knowledge of what goes on upon his lands_.

_Melethen, I wish I could see you again. With you I am safe and protected. With you I am happy. I love you. _

_I wonder where you are. When I last saw Mother –a week ago, at a meeting –she said that you were in a fighting-place, like a battlefield. I am afraid that I did not quite understand her. It all seemed too complicated and unprovoked. Why would anyone fight merely for the pleasure of others?_

_The 'farmer' tells me that he thinks that we may have come from somewhere called Gaul; he also mentioned a place called Britannia that these Romans have tried to conquer. They have failed. He thinks that we are from these Northeast regions because of our paler skin. However, if this Britannia is not a Roman colony, then we…melethen, we would be safe there. Our children and grandchildren, they would be safe there…if only we could reach it!_

_I do not know when the ships depart, meleth, nor do I know where they go from. But let us have hope for our freedom!_

_Your beloved,_

_Celebrian, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn._

She blew on it to dry the ink, and carefully folded it. Then she concealed it beneath the bush, covered it and the writing equipment with dust, and headed for the gate.

She often stood there, blending with the pillar as she wistfully watched the road through the bars. She couldn't fit through, though, despite her being so thin. So she spent her free time there, watching wistfully, and crafting dreams of freedom.

A horse went by, heading out from the city, passing through the lush farmland on its way to other places. Beyond the cultivated area, she knew, it would turn either to the East or to the Southwest. To the Southeast and the South, all that would greet them was desert. There was a small village of vineyards and their tenders somewhere near the side of it, next to a river, but apart from that, the desert extended for about sixty to seventy miles. Sixty to seventy miles of shifting sand, oases, small streams, tiny animals, tough, sparse vegetation, and cacti. Mostly sand, though. Oh, and sun. Lots of sun.

A firm, neat cart clattered after the zinc-tinted stallion, pulled by a pair of bay mares. A bronzed, fairly dressed man drove it. A couple of dogs, along with a few slaves, walked or ran beside, while a dark-haired figure huddled on the back scribbled at something, muttering random Latin words –with a distinct Quenyan accent.

"Erestor!" She said, before she could stop herself, and proceeded to flip instinctively into Sindarin. "What are you doing here?"

He looked up, his eyes widening in shock. "Celebrian!"

But they didn't have much time…

Something slim, wrapped in cloth, twisted through the air toward her, tracing a swift, extended curve. She caught it, sliding it into her dress to examine it later.

"Elenlome is with a metal trader, your father and son are in the arena –" "What?" "- Your husband and your other son have escaped, your mother…"

And then he was out of sight, or at least far enough that if she had spoken, they would have heard too, even with their mortal ears. Cursing softly, she leaned back against the post, feeling exhausted. Looking at the travelling sun, she could not help but long for the cool of night, and the chance to lose herself in her sweet, sweet dreams.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

Gandalf was examining a fox.

At least, it _looked_ somewhat like a fox. The ears were too big, the colour was wrong, and it was too small. Still, it was undeniably…fox-like. The little creature had made itself a den in a sand dune that provided at least one firm wall for three different Telerin shelters. So far, all it had done was to run through the encampment, snapping up bits of meat from plates. Of course, Gandalf was well aware that bits of meat did not regularly appear in the desert, so this beast must eat other things too. Things that they could eat.

Added to that, he was feeling rather bored, and the fox-thing was quite interesting.

The sound of somebody sliding down an embankment and landing in a thin puddle of water was clearly heard. With a mutter about irresponsible Elflings, he got to his feet, walking over while trying to look vaguely intimidating. The 'camp' had been moved to an area nearer the stream/oasis/whatever-you-liked-to-call-it for matters of convenience. The Eldar had dug tiny channels in some places, so that little rivulets trickled through the 'streets' most of the day, except at noon.

He arrived at the puddle, to be greeted by the sight of two immature Peredhil and four immature Elves. All were slightly damp. Apparently, the fact that there was hardly any water did not decrease the attraction of a serious, engaging, and amusing water fight.

"Children!" he huffed, eyes sparkling. "Get out of that puddle! _Now!_ Have your parents not seen fit to inform you that we must go carefully with what liquid we have? There is only enough for drinking, and sometimes cooking. You ought not to _waste_ it with your games."

"We weren't _wasting_ it," mumbled one black-haired boy. "We were just having some fun." Nevertheless, they all clambered back up the small incline, and sat down in front of him.

"If there isn't much water to go around, why don't you just make it rain?" asked Tholinsul, shaking his dark brown hair out of his face. "You're one of the most powerful of the Maiar. Surely you can manage a shower or something."

For someone his age, Tholinsul certainly was perceptive.

"I do not do so because I do not believe that it is my place to control the weather without consulting my Lord Manwe. He can grant me the permission to do that, but I shall not presume to think that I may do so of my own initiative. It is a delicate matter, young one."

The child pulled at a blade of tough, dry grass.

"Mother would say that that wasn't a good enough reason." A couple of his friends nodded. All of them were aware of Elenlome's peculiar, logical, and inventive way of thinking.

"Maybe she would, but your mother is not here. Unfortunately for us. So we do not know what she _would_ say, apart from that I didn't have a good enough reason. Besides that, your mother does not completely understand."

"I know what she might say," Tholinsul muttered. "She'd say that you couldn't seem to contact Manwe, so the matter was out of his hands. Then she'd say that, since we are basically on our own, you are obliged to help, and rain would be helpful. Then she'd inform you that we wouldn't ask unless we had to, because we don't like to ask you to do things that we can't do. And then she'd say that you ought to think about it."

Gandalf considered that point. (It certainly fit in with Elenlome's character.) _Hmm. Now that I come to think of it, she **would** say something like that. It is also an idea that makes sense. But still…I don't like to just do this at once. _

_We must survive. That much is plain. We need water. But we **have** water, even if there is not much of it. Oh, Eru Iluvatar, this is a quandary! How can I want to do the best for our fragile community, and yet not wish to do this? Because I am still in Arda, and therefore still under obligation to her Lord…yet I am also needed to assist these Elves. And I must assist them however I can. But does that include doing something that I am so uncertain about? I **am** a fool! _

_Let us think this over carefully. These Quendi must live. I must help them to survive, to the best of my abilities. But I must not usurp the laws of the world by doing so. Which takes priority…lives or rules?_

_Lives, of course. _

He raised his arms to the skies, whispered, and summoned the rain.

It wasn't much, not really. But, to the dry-skinned, parched Eldar, it was a blessing. They raised their faces, lifted their arms, fetched pans and jars to collect the liquid. They laughed, shouted, and sang, letting their wet hair cling to their skin.

All too soon, the brief shower was over.

And Gandalf Greyhame, also known as Mithrandir, Olorin, and Gandalf the White, smiled to himself, and turned away to watch the wet sand as it attempted to be blown about.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

Elladan stayed huddled in the corner of his cell, gazing stupidly at the door.

_Soon now –soon. Can I do this? At least I will not be attacking one of my own, but still…I don't know if I can do this. I have killed in battle, but this –how can I possibly fight without either of us wishing to? Perhaps if I beat him and they want me to kill him, I could simply not do so. But then they might kill **me**, and I don't know if Elrohir could survive that, even though we are apart._

_It is my duty to live –for my family's sake. But I don't know if I **can** live with my sanity, if this is what is going to happen to me. Day after day locked in a cell, occasionally let out only so that I can fight somebody…Varda, I am so confused!_

The gate opened, and he was pushed out. Sun flared in his eyes, but he was quick to adjust. The sand rasped harshly against his ankles as it was blown up.

He reacted instinctively to the sight of another trying to attack him. Darting forward, he lashed out, aiming for the top of the thigh, hoping to cripple his opponent. Metal clashed on bone.

He ran back, then stared stupidly for a moment, realising that this gladiator was armed only with a net and a pike. He also noticed that he only wore a helmet and a breastplate. The contest hardly seemed fair. In fact, it was as good as over.

But the other was good with his weaponry. Elladan's reluctance to hurt him seemed to encourage him, urging him to take wild risks. In the end, the Elf became tired of dodging.

It took one strike.

The blade slid in the man's throat, and, due to the angle at which it had been thrust, it jabbed up into his brain. He collapsed back, dying instantly.

And the Peredhel collapsed to his knees, gazing at the limp body in shock. His mind was a humming mess of confusion. He didn't understand it. The sun sliced at his neck, but he hardly noticed it's fierce rays.

_I have killed again. I have drawn blood. I have taken a life for the sport of others._

_I am as low as those whom I fight._

He closed his eyes tightly, not daring to let the tears of shame spill out.

"It's not that bad, lad."

He raised his head. A trainer was standing there. Not his –one of the older ones. He answered haltingly, fighting for the words.

"How so? I…I have killed…dead…a man, for…for no reason of my own." He was guided to his feet.

"He was tryin' to kill you, boy. You were defending yourself. That's reason enough, especially down here in the arenas. Good fighters die, or live, sometimes. No personal excuses, but it still gets done. You'll learn to live with it. All of us do, or we die ourselves." The arm was warm about Elladan's shoulders.

"May I see my Grandfather?" He needed the reassurance so desperately…

"The one with the silver hair? Goodness knows what they thought they were doing when they picked _him_. Odd, though…looks old, yet doesn't. At any rate, you'll see him tonight. Come on, Lanus."

_Lanus. So that is who they will see fighting in the future. Lanus._

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

A/N: So, that's the end of that chapter.

I am terribly, terribly sorry for being so slow with this chapter. Thing is, my writing power has slowed down a bit. In addition, I have another fanfic and a novel on the go. Therefore, _Where The Present Meets The Past_ now has an update expectancy of about a month at the minimum. I'm terribly sorry for all the delays, believe me. It's a good story.

I have also planned for it to be part of a series that will go quite a long way. After this story, there will be a sequel, and then maybe as many as ten after that. Yes, I am actually rather attached to the storyline.

For anyone who wants to know –yes, there is a plotline. There is a reason for the Eldar appearing on Earth. There is going to be a proper story coming out, not just a list of activities. These Quendi are going to do important things. However, you will have to wait a bit for them. I can't just write a whole story out in two weeks. I apologise for that.

For anyone interested, I have a Livejournal. You can find it by clicking on the 'Homepage' link at my Bio. There is a Silm/LotR crossover going on in it, as well as snippets of poetry, original fiction, upcoming fanfic, and real life. I hope you find it interesting.

I will be trying to write faster –I'm going to start the next chapter today, and I won't stop until I've written at least a page. Fortunately, holidays are here, so more free time. Blasted computer rota.

Starwind Rohana, who hopes that your anger will be mollified by her LJ.


	9. Fear and Discovery

Disclaimer: No, I own not a single fraction of LotR.

A/N: Hello again. This is Starwind Rohana. I am bearing the next chapter of this story. Stupid alien phrase generator is going off…_now_.

Uh. I'm very sorry for any delays in the updating of this story. Trust me, events were probably beyond my control. /Looks puzzled. /

Anyway –this chapter some pretty hectic stuff begins. It's also rather more interesting, I hope. And there's also something that might be called murder, but might also be called accidental killing. And no, it is _not_ like what poor Elladan had to do last time. It's a bit desperate. Oh, and a bit of something rather unusual comes out…

And the Sindarin translations can be found at the end of the chapter.

Fear and Discovery.

The sand felt cold.

Well, not cold, perhaps, but colder than what he had been used to experiencing for the last two weeks. Blessedly, blessedly cool. Damp, too, if only slightly. Now that he concentrated, he could hear water nearby. It sounded vaguely muffled, as though he were hearing it through…canvas? He shook his head to clear it, and then groaned as the action caused deafening pulses of pain to slam through his head.

"Ada? Ada! You're awake!"

Firm, delighted, youthful features ducked into his field of view, but it was difficult for him to concentrate. He moaned again. It _hurt_, dang it!

"What? No, hold on, I'm being stupid." _I'm generally in agreement._ "Wait here." _Am I supposed to move somehow? –And stop kicking sand in my face._

Liquid frillicked down over his forehead, soothing the horrible, dull pain. He looked up tiredly. (A/N: Yes, I did invent the word 'frillick'. Your point?)

His son was crouching over him worriedly. His fingers were wet –he must have just scooped the water straight up. His hair clung to his face, sticky with sweat. Warm, browny-grey eyes looked at his face worriedly.

"Adar? Speak, for the love of the Valar! Are you well?" And then, with a sudden grin, and a flashback to happier days spent in Valinor, "How many oliphaunts? And what dance is it?"

Well, he knew how to answer _that_, at least. Words were an effort, though.

"Twenty-five, and they are currently engaged in a rather enthusiastic version of the Polka. Please don't ask me where they learned a dance that will only emerge approximately fifteen centuries from now."

His son smiled. Very gently, he reached out, brushing the hair from Elrohir's eyes. He laughed, but it seemed a rather pained sound.

"You're in our shelter. Grandfather's withLordThranduil. Do you remember coming here? Legolas said that you seemed to be unconscious most of the time, and that you weren't thinking clearly when you were awake. Coming down here, I mean. But you're better now."

The Peredhel let his eyes flicker again. He was so very, very tired. He could barely remember days of sun, sand, and sweat, drinking trickles of water while someone carried him. Come to that, he could barely remember Rivendell. His head was too dazed. With a sigh, he allowed himself to collapse back into dreams.

Warm arms caught him from behind. He smiled weakly at the half-familiar clearing, which was flooded with brilliant, beautiful light. Then he twisted his head, gazing up into his grandfather's strong, noble features.

He was somewhat easier with this place and this person than he had been. In his unconscious state, his mind had often chosen to rest here. With a grin, he whispered, "Are you well, Morningstar?"

"None of that, Elrohir, and yes, I am well," came the calm response. "But there is something that you should know now that you are safe, and there are things to tell you regarding why you were cast out of Valinor. I have much to explain, and you have things to learn, Elrohir."

"What are they?"

"Follow me."

They climbed once more into the sleek, silvery boat. The younger Half-Elf gripped the sides hard in an attempt to lessen his sudden anxiety. He had never been worried previously; not in this peaceful glade. But suddenly he knew that something bad was going to be shown to him. Something terribly, awfully wrong.

He stared at the ground as they lifted away from it, and allowed himself the brief enjoyment of amazement. But then they were away, and the stars caught his gaze, before they were returned to somewhere just outside Arda's globe.

"Look. Beyond the world, you can see stars. Beyond them, blackness. Not normal blackness; more an _empty_ sort of blackness. That is the Void."

"Where Morgoth is held with Sauron."

"And where others are held, though you do not know it. Now, many of the dead spirits of their servants are held in the deepest reaches of Mandos, concealed from all. Those that did the worst, however, are also held in the Void. Watch."

Elrohir nodded, looking carefully at the dark cloud beyond the opposite stars. He saw fire glaring within it, and fury smouldering. It was rather confusing, being able to see emotion, but he adapted quickly. Then he saw something slamming into the edge, trying to break free.

"Below us is Valinor, a few days before the Breaking. For some inexplicable reason, the Valar were unable to foresee this, and it appears that they were unwilling to interfere with the lands outside of Aman. Elves, on the other hand, are not so restricted. If you look carefully at the world beyond…see?"

He did. Something smashed out of the Void, pummelling into Arda. The shockwaves did not seem to affect the world itself. Instead, they raced neatly around it, and…hurtled into Valinor, bounding over the Straight Road to shake the land furiously. He saw the cities sway.

People ran out, screaming. He could just hear the frightened cries. Stones crashed down.

And the land began to split open.

Suddenly, the crowds diminished in size. He saw Arda shudder violently as people appeared in the desert. In Aman, the cities vanished for a moment, to come back filthy and broken.

Then the land…broke.

He cried out in disbelief. Valinor had always existed. It could not just be _gone!_ He looked to his companion for conformation.

Earendil was watching the place intently, his eyes narrowed and gleaming. Elrohir's words faded before they reached his lips. It seemed dangerous to speak to the Mariner in his current state. Automatically, he crouched back, tensing.

The land below was…reforming. Being fixed, anyway. Earth somehow melding back into a whole.

He glanced back at the true, round world, and saw that there was a slight blur over it, so that it was visibly in a different timespan. People seemed to be moving unusually quickly. Startled that he could see them at all, he squinted, relieved when the boat moved closer and the figures slowed down.

He could see himself and his father, running, staggering over sand. He saw his mother, working hard; his grandmother, running to the arena; his twin…fighting. Killing. He could see the pain that Elladan felt. He could see his grandfather, silver hair glinting as he comforted Elladan. He could see everyone in the arena.

Looking outwards, he spotted Thranduil and Legolas, gathering up him and his father. He glimpsed Gandalf, causing rain to fall. He saw his children –so different in age, and yet acting so similarly because they had to protect each other. He found that he could make out the shapes of tents, and that Erestor was in a cart, bound for he did not know where.

And lastly, when he glanced back toward Rome, he saw his wife, standing on a pier, watching the seas with her sharp, quick eyes.

He saw all of it, too quickly and yet too slowly. He looked at his companion with a mixture of curiosity and horror on his face. The stars shone bright behind them.

"You have seen what happened. Bauglir has escaped. The Valar are loath to leave their lands and to intrude upon the realm of Men, which they may not do -in fact, I have my doubts that they are certain of what has transpired. After impact, the fugitives dispersed and hid. The Valar haddevoted their attention to the immediateproblem.Iluvatar –Eru has apparently decided not to intervene. Not yet, anyway. But the Elves are in Arda, Elrohir. Alone with the beasts, a few Maiar, humanity, and a destructive power of incredible strength. He has regained much while in the Void; indeed, he is now more fearsome than ever he was."

Terror exploded in him, accompanied by a horrible sense of resignation. How could they hope to remain in Arda, alone and confused? _We are lost…we will die…all will be crushed and levelled beneath his cruelty and might…the lands will become a black waste of poisoned waters and contaminated earth…_

"What…can be done…no, what can _we_ do?"

The other Peredhel looked at him, solemn and slightly sad. Silver and gold were reflected behind him, but the light of the Silmaril was the only light that he truly saw.

"You must tell them to fight. He will not be so open this time. He will be influential and destructive, but he will not openly conquer an area and send out his armies. He will be subtle –but there will be places that you will be able to find him. Eldar fought him in the First and Second Ages; they can do so again now. It is your best chance, grandchild mine."

"What? _Fight_ him? But he is…he is…"

"Elrohir." Earendil took him firmly by the shoulders. "_It can be done._"

The silver ship turned in the dark sea. Slowly, surely, they began their descent.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

The sun was far too bright. That was her first conclusion upon stepping onto the rough deck.

Her second conclusion was that she didn't like the smell _at all_. The dead fish absolutely stank.

She had come up here to clear her thoughts, and instead she was being distracted by fish-smell. Leaning over the side, she inhaled the scent of the salty sea, trying to focus on the facts.

_Okay. **Concentrate**, Elenlome. You're not a complete imbecile._ _What do you know?_

…_That some arrogant, wealthy person whose trade I do not know is downstairs with Vilya in a little leather pouch that he keeps securely attached to his side. I know that he has her because he showed her to the metal trader whose ship I'm on, who is a friend of his. I know that the Three have somehow been granted power again, but that utilising that power would be a Very Bad Idea unless the person doing it actually had experience. Oh, and I know that I'm about to be sick. Blasted leftover human metabolisms…_

Swearing quietly, she leant over the side and lost what little breakfast she had been given. The acidic substance burned her throat.

_Well, that didn't do me any good…except that now I have nothing to throw up._

_Killing him? Out of the question. I **do** have a sense of self-preservation. Besides, no weapon. Theft? Not something that I'm particularly happy with, although I suppose it might come to that. Not sure of my chances, really. Uh, maybe if I trick him into almost falling overboard and then pull him back, he'll give her to me –HAH! Not flipping likely! Perhaps if we have an accident I could salvage it…and then proceed to drown…_

Quite frankly, she wasn't sure what to do. So, instead of thinking on how to acquire Vilya, she watched the blue, silver-topped waves roll in the sun. The irregular, yet somehow predictable motions intrigued her, despite the fact that she had seen it before, and she smiled, letting her mind wander.

Not far off, a sleek, slim, dark grey body leapt and flashed in the sunlight. She leant forward, fascinated. She couldn't recall having seen one of those particular animals in well over a century. Losing herself in the elegant twists of the lithe forms, Elenlome almost forgot about her predicament, and the horrible dilemma that she faced.

And, as she watched, she felt an idea begin to form in her mind.

Four hours later, as the sun began to darken, a shadow-clad figure slipped into a storeroom, and removed a sack of grain. It then slid out again. A floor up, it stopped, opened the bag, and scattered the contents over the floor. Then it upturned a bucket of seawater, lightly sticking the husks to the wooden planking, as well as making it slippier.

Smiling wickedly to herself, the night-haired Elf strode off to see what she could do for her 'master' that might place her under less suspicion when Vilya was found missing. In the end, she found herself pouring wine for the evening meal, listening intently for a certain sound.

She heard it half an hour later…the sound of someone skidding on wet grain, yelling in surprise, crashing to the ground, and shrieking in pain. There was a brief, convenient moment of confusion, which she used to make good her escape…

Vilya lay on the floor. Mostly hidden by dust and wheat, it was easier for her sharper eyes to pick the sapphire ring out. Elenlome's fingers dashed toward her, snaked around her, and flipped her back into the safety of the tough-skinned palm. She straightened up quickly, moving to hastily pull the mortal to his feet.

He was cursing, blustering, growling abuse at her. Her muscles tightened; this _elleth_ had not been blessed with the ability to ignore insults in either life. Practically automatically, her fists clenched, although she knew that it would only mean more trouble for her. Fortunately, the arrival of the metal trader who owned the ship served to get her away without her actually attacking him.

She eventually sat down on what passed for her bed, and finally dared to open her hand.

The blue stone glowed gently amidst the dirt. It was slightly eerie. If you looked hard enough, you could imagine that you saw the breezes flowing through the lovely ring. The sight was like cool water to her hot, tired eyes.

She tore the hem from her long, threadbare cotton shift, and wrapped it carefully about the sapphire object. Then she tied it, and knotted the loose ends around her upper arm. Better safe than sorry.

When she slept, she dreamt of a silver ship flying through the stars, and of her husband at the helm.

Morning brought seasickness, worry, and bellows of 'NILTONA!' echoing their way throughout the vessel. She fell off her makeshift pallet, whacked her head against the floor, swore in a variety of languages, scrabbled to her feet, checked that Vilya was safe and concealed, and lumbered out into the passage, grumbling about stupid humans who couldn't let you sleep and trying not to throw up.

She dropped three plates and stepped on a cup about four seconds after entering the cafeteria-type room. Hoping to escape being sworn at even more, she took a wine flask, filled a glass, and set off queasily for the traveller's room.

He was not pleased to see her. She shoved the wine at him and hurried away.

The sun was bright above the deck. The sea rolled and curled, inviting her to play in it. The firm, aqua, glass-like waves were topped with soft, white-silver, foaming crests. Elenlome could have danced along one of the spars. She felt inexplicably light inside.

The sun glinted off the water, shattering in to a million jewelled droplets. Spray caught in her hair, shimmering ethereally. With the light that seemed to beam from inside her, glowing at the side of the deck, she did not appear to be remotely human.

So it was perhaps not surprising that the woman who came up the stairs gave a yelp, stared, blinked, and fainted.

The Elf who stared at the water turned around. She hissed something that she should not, given that she was married to the son of Imladris' ruler, really have known, picked the woman up by slinging her arms under the other's armpits, and hauled her heavy burden to somewhere that spray, slippery decks, and discovery were not such threats –this was just under the cabin area, concealed by boxes –and walked back to the side of the ship, concentrating on what she had to do.

The gull wheeled in the crisp air, a banner of white against the blue. It coasted in to the salt-silken wood, watching her with bright, sharp amber eyes full of intelligence. Its sand-yellow beak pecked at the threads of her shift.

"Telo si," she said to it abruptly. "Aniron pedi, maew."

She leant forward, whispering urgently, hoping against all hope that she would be understood, trying to convey her anxiety to the bird. She put all of her haywire emotions into her voice, knowing that all creatures could comprehend feelings. And then, at last, feeling slightly drained, she stepped back.

"Syl vain." And then, with a sudden longing to hear her mothertongue again, "Fair winds. Si, ego! Fly!"

She gazed on as the great wings spread, and bore the mist-edged gull away from her.

"I love you, Elrohir, Tindome, Tholinsul, Ninquedil. I love you all. I love you so much that I cannot think of living my life without seeing you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I'm so, so sorry for leaving you…"

The oceans heard her, but the seas didn't care.

And the lonely Elf stood on the ship, almost crying, carried away from her loved ones with every stroke of the oars.

" " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "

Celebrian unwrapped the package.

It was just some thin cloth wrapped hastily about a slim object, which fell into her palm, flashing in the strong sunlight.

"By the sun!" she muttered, staring at the light, strong blade. "What in all Marred Arda can he expect me to do with _this_? Stab somebody in cold blood? Somehow detach the hinges of the gate? Threaten that Man into letting me go? He surely cannot expect me to _use_ it!" _But then, why would he have given it to me?…_

_It is a precaution, _she reassured herself._ He is just trying to make sure that I have access to something that I can use to defend myself. There. Simple._

_Still, I cannot help feeling…cautious about this. If he finds me with it, that Mortal –what will he do? I have no wish to be beaten again._

Nodding decisively to herself, she straightened herself up and strode off to her area, sliding the dagger into the shoulder area of her shift.

The sun was hot, so hot, and the sand was baking beneath her feet, shifting and burning…the trees and bushes were shimmering, as though she saw them through water…she couldn't _breathe_; her chest was contracting, restricting her lungs, and she could feel her heart rapping frantically at her hard ribs…she doubled over, trying to drag the air into her lungs, but none came…

Pain blossomed from the hollow of her throat, streaming acid throughout her body. Celebrian's arms and legs twitched madly, burning and freezing at the same time. Her head was full of slow, baffling, half-thought ideas, which were suddenly and thoroughly overwhelmed by one horrible, clear-cut, bewildering, terrifying awareness.

**_Pain._**

It spread hectically through every nerve, leaving a havoc of agony behind it. She felt as though she was burning alive, incinerated on a great fire, what little fat that remained inside her cooking and spitting, roasting her from the inside.

And, inside that raging inferno, she saw him.

Darkness flowed from him. He was standing there, laughing, his eyes cold, thrusting the pain into her, and smiling as she writhed. He enjoyed seeing what he could inflict on her, she realised, and quailed. There was _nothing_ that she could do to stop him. He ripped through her mind for information, shredding her resolve.

And she saw some thing in him. She saw the Eldar that he had hurt, the good people that he had tortured, all of the suffering that he had inflicted on the first Elves that he had captured. And Celebrian shuddered, because, even through the agony, she could feel what they had undergone, and she could sympathise with them.

Somewhere in her subconscious awareness, she realised who he was, and fear rose thickly in her throat.

She _hated _him, loathed him with every fibre of her being…

_No, _she thought. _Not hate. But maybe…_

And she remembered the sun rising, Arwen dancing, her sons joking with each other as they returned from the hunt, and she, Celebrian, Silver-Maiden, hurled those feelings at him, and tore away.

The sand drifted over her outstretched arms.

He was gone.

_Gone._

She breathed heavily, her mind reeling in the aftermath of the pain, absorbing the shock of her realisation. She knew, even though she had never before seen him. She knew.

He had almost told her. She had felt his power, felt those memories, and they had formed his shape.

_What can we do? The lands shall be blasted to ashes and dust before him. Men and Elves shall fall, unaware of the threat until he takes them. Nothing good will survive, and Valinor will be riven asunder…_

_Do not be so pessimistic. The Valar will defy him…Valinor shall be kept safe! But, by Iluvatar, we will not. Though I would be cursed ere I lay down and allowed him to crush my kin to their dooms! I **will** fight!_

_But he was so strong… I barely survived…_

_I need Mother. Mother must know. Mother will help. She is so brave, so wise. Mother will tell me what to do._

Her feet found holds in the soft sand. Squinting against the sun, Celebrian estimated the distance to he mother, the energy needed to get there, her own reserves of strength, and the obstacles in the way. The conclusion was that she did not have the ability to get there before sundown.

She began to move toward the area that she slept in, hoping for food to be there. The news was _urgent_! She had to eat. Then, maybe, she could make it.

The slave quarters were not exactly luxurious. Nevertheless, the shabby construction was somewhere to relax, and the silver-haired Elf-Lady welcomed it. Her muscles began to recharge; she nibbled at some dry bread, sipped at some water, and gathered herself.

Through a crack in the woodwork, she saw the dark blot rising. It lay just against the dimming light of the sky, and dread burrowed into her once more. There was no time now for respite. She had to go.

She doubted that he would stay this open for long, but still, he was there. He was there, and she did not know if Galadriel was aware that the dark smudge was he. She did not even know if the Ringbearer had seen it.

She slid the knife out of her sleeve and into her hand, got to her feet, and ran.

The man was waiting for her. Quanamus stepped out into her path, blocking her, holding his club in one sturdy hand. She slowed, dismayed. She could not go around him, she could not go back, and he was lifting his hand…

Celebrian ducked, twisting out of reach, and spun to face him, hissing slightly in alarm. He swung at her again, and this time the heavy wooden mace caught her in the stomach. She gasped for air, winded –and, in a moment of desperate remembrance, she dashed the knife at him.

It skewed off, shallowly cutting his thigh, but it was enough for her to duck away again. Her breath came in short, sharp tugs, forcing her to slow her motions. She didn't really understand what he was doing –or rather, she did understand, but she didn't know why. She was _his_, in his thought, and why would he attack something of his own?

_Because you are trouble…you break things, you scare the animals, you disobey, and now, now you try to run…_

And then she was shoving against him, ripping at his face as he tried to beat her, tried to crush her body with his club, and somehow her right arm came up and pressed into his neck in an attempt to shove him away…but the expected feeling of firm resistance was instead a sensation of something collapsing, and warm liquid coated her hand with his spasms.

Celebrian jerked away, staring in horror. The red blood was flowing from his neck, seemingly endless in quantity, and oh, Valar, he was _moving_, jerking and thrashing, and she could hear him make choked, broken, gurgling sounds…her hands, her hands were stained, too much blood, too much, leaking into her skin and colouring her fingers crimson…

_I have killed._

Celebrian, silver-haired Lady of Imladris, fled wildly towards her mother, a horrified scream bursting from her throat.

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A/N: I did it! I finished it!

/Is ridiculously proud. /

Sorry it took so long –you know, it seems that I say that every time. You must be getting fed up with it.

Still, I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter, and I hope that it explained some things. It still seems a bit rough, this story does, but I'm working on it.

The bit with Morgoth –well, it can work, if you take certain ideas into consideration. The bit about the Valar remaining behind is less plausible, but if you take the view that maybe the Void contains some kind of power, it works out –just. I also think that the Valar would not want to move directly against him –for one thing, they don't really know that he's there, and then there are all those people around…

Translations:

Maew –gull.

Si –now.

Ego –go away.

Telo si –come here (I'm not good at accents).

Aniron pedi –I wish to speak.

See you in March (with luck), Starwind rather-flustered-and-very-pleased Rohana.

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